Revenge of the Nerds
by Night Monkey
Summary: Poison Ivy and the Scarecrow have joined forces and are plotting murder. Batman would never admit it, but he almost hopes they succeed. Why? Because their intended victim is the Joker. Sequel to Nerd.
1. Pixilated Blur

Well, you guys wanted it, I felt compelled to do it, so here's a little follow-up for _Nerd_. It won't be anywhere near as long, but I think it'll do.

By the way, if you're reading this and saying "What the hell is _Nerd_?" you might consider reading it first. It will inform you in all the ways of the world. Okay, no it won't. It's just the prequel and it'll fill you in on how the characters got where they are. If you don't feel like reading _Nerd_, in all its glory, read the first and last chapters. That might be enough, though you'll miss the toaster action. Yeah, that caught your attention, didn't it? No? Then there is no pleasing you.

Summary: Poison Ivy and the Scarecrow have joined forces and are plotting murder. Batman would never admit it, but he almost wants them to succeed. Why? Because their intended victim is the Joker. Sequel to _Nerd_.

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Poison Ivy was busy tending to the dozens of specimens she kept in her home when Harley and the Scarecrow returned from their adventure in the greenhouse. Judging by the way Crane was hanging onto Harley for support, the visit with Mel the giant Venus flytrap hadn't gone well. Ivy supposed she should have warned them that early morning was Mel's usual feeding time. It might have saved them some trauma.

"Mel tried to eat the Professor, but I saved him," Harley said.

"That's nice. I'll find you some cereal after I finish watering the orchids." Ivy replied.

The Scarecrow, stunned by his near-death encounter with a plant of all things, had nothing to add to the conversation. He didn't want cereal; he wanted a plane to drop napalm or Agent Orange on Mel and wither the toothy son of a geranium.

"Do you have Lucky Charms or Fruit Loops?" Harley asked.

"No, I have Raisin Bran."

"But that's old-people cereal! I want marshmallows and fun shapes and little prizes inside the box. Don't you have anythin' like that, Red?" Harley whined.

"All that sugar is bad for you."

"No it's not. I need it, I really do."

"That's because you've become addicted to chemical additives and commercials with leprechauns in them. There are no marshmallows in nature, Harley."

"But nature's boring!"

Crane was not in the mood to listen to an argument, especially not an argument over cereal. He unattached himself from Harley, managed not to collapse, and limped off for the kitchen. Maybe he'd get lucky and find Ivy kept some kind of wine in the fridge. Many kinds of fruit--everything from grapes to apples--could be fermented into some sort of alcoholic beverage. Considering how he felt, he'd drink kumquat wine if offered.

Alas, there was nothing that resembled homemade booze in Ivy's fridge. There wasn't much that even resembled _food_. The fruit and vegetable bins were the only things stocked with items Crane could readily identify. As for what Ivy had arranged on the shelves, he had no intention of touching any of it. Especially not the green capillaries that, even as he watched, reached for the open air and light of the world beyond the refrigerator.

Plants were not supposed to do that! They were supposed to stay firmly rooted, make only imperceptible movements as they followed the sun, and die without a fuss. They were not supposed to eat people, have a mind of their own, or usurp territory inside refrigerators.

"They're nothing to worry about, Crane. I've been trying to create a plant that could spread faster than kudzu, but stand severe cold. Right now, that's all I've managed to achieve. It can survive temperatures a few degrees below freezing, but the movement and growth stops entirely right at 32 degrees."

The Scarecrow turned around to find Ivy and Harley entering the room. Harley was wearing a pout, which meant she wasn't going to be fed anything with a high sugar content. Ivy was pointedly ignoring her.

"Your plants disturb me."

"That's only because you don't know them better. Spend a little time in the green, Crane, and everything will start to grow on you."

"That's what worries me. You don't happen to know a little film put together in 1982 called _Creepshow_, do you?" Crane asked.

"I rarely watch television."

"In the movie, a man is unlucky enough to have plants literally 'grow on him'. The man commits suicide to escape the parasitic plants overtaking his body. I'd prefer not to share his experience."

Ivy sighed, "He only acts like that because he's a _man_. He's too self-centered to see the beauty of what's happening."

"I don't know, Red, it sounds gross." Harley said.

"I'll show you plants are the most perfect things on Earth. Harley, go eat a bagel or something. Crane, come upstairs with me."

The Scarecrow wanted to go upstairs with Ivy just a wee bit more than we wanted to go knocking around in the sewers with Killer Croc. Reluctantly, he compelled his tired feet to turn away from the fridge. Ivy had all ready disappeared into the hall. She apparently didn't care that he'd landed heavily on his left leg when Mel had dropped him and that he now limping thanks to the damned weed.

Ivy was waiting at the top of the stairs. When Crane finally made it up to the second floor, she led him to a bathroom that was practically swarming with plants. Mercifully, none of them were moving or abnormally large.

"Sit on the edge of the tub, and make sure you don't fall in."

Crane sat down. He had no idea why he was trapped in Ivy's bathroom with a hundred potted plants to observe whatever was about to take place, and he was far from comfortable. He still couldn't sleep, he couldn't even get drunk and dull his misery that way, and he was still freaked out by the liveliness exhibited by some of the foliage.

"What are you planning on doing to me?" Crane asked.

"In case you didn't notice, you look like crap." Ivy said.

"Thank you. It's the best compliment I've been given in days. Let me go to sleep and I'll look better in the morning."

"Going to sleep isn't going to fix that limp, or whatever injury is hiding beneath your hair, or the spider bite you told me about."

"My injuries are exactly that: mine. I'm a trained medical professional and fully capable of treating myself.

"Let me see them."

"Absolutely not."

"You're in my bathroom, and I'm telling you to at least let me see what that revolting clown did to you. I'm not going to have you die on my couch."

The Scarecrow glared. "I am in no danger of dying. Help Harley butter her bagel and point me to the nearest Advil."

"I don't have Advil."

"Damn, I all ready tried Tylenol. Never mind, I'll take it again."

"I don't have Tylenol, either."

Well, that was just jolly. What did she have, children's Motrin? A great lot of help that would do him.

"Do you have any commercial painkillers, or should I just suffer?"

"I never buy medicine. Nature provides everything I need; that's what I wanted to show you."

Crane rose from the tub and headed for the door. He trusted so called 'natural cures' as much as he trusted the insane men with long beards and wild eyes that dwelled in the park and claimed to be the shooter on the grassy knoll. If he wanted stinking plant sap rubbed all over his body, he'd go out and roll in some bushes.

"Sit back down before I make you."

"By all means, try. In case you failed to notice, I hold the height advantage and the weight advantage, if only by ounces."

Instead of sweeping his legs out from under him, knocking him on the back of the head, or putting him in a headlock, Ivy took pity on the Scarecrow. She grabbed his shirt, spun him around, and gave him the singularly most exciting kiss of his life.

Seconds later, the toxins in Ivy's kiss all but immobilized Crane. He slid to the floor despite his best efforts to crawl away. Whatever pretty poison Ivy carried, the Scarecrow was little match for it.

"Don't…touch me…I'm warning…you."

He passed out immediately after uttering his pointless warning. Once her victim was getting the sleep he so desired, Ivy set to work.

An unknown amount of time later, Crane became vaguely aware of sensation in the void. He felt...pressure. Not crushing pressure, like someone was sitting on his chest in an attempt to stymie his breathing, but not a light touch, either. It felt like a heaviness in his feet, akin to what he supposed poor circulation would feel like.

"Professor."

A voice, high, feminine, far off in the distance. He didn't want to respond to the voice. He wanted to stay where it was dark and peaceful and his beaten body and exhausted mind could recover.

"Hey, Professor, anybody home?"

No, nobody was home, the lights were off, the driveway was empty, the newspaper subscription had been canceled. He was on vacation, relaxing, kicking up his heels. And he was not to be disturbed.

"Professor, if you get up now, you can see yourself on the news. Look, it starting! There's that floozy Mister J said had a nicer smile than me."

The Scarecrow sat straight up, all drowsiness and annoyance forgotten. He ascertained that he had been sleeping on the couch and Harley, having her usual seat taken, had decided to perch on his outstretched legs. Normally, Crane disliked being used as furniture, but right now there were more important things. He was going to be a headline; Gotham's residents would see him and cower in their little hovels.

"As many of you know, the criminal known as the Scarecrow attacked a supermarket yesterday. Over two dozen people were treated for exposure to his poison gas, which causes fear and hallucinations in anyone unlucky enough to breathe it in. Tonight, we've got a follow-up story and a really amazing video sent to us by a viewer." The anchorwoman said.

Crane would not have called himself vain--it was quite hard to be vain when you spent a good deal of the time hiding your body so it wouldn't frighten people off--but he did enjoy airtime. It was basically free publicity. Let the news networks broadcast his image, let them beam toxin-induced nightmares right into peoples' homes, let the populace see that Glenn Beck's War Room wasn't the scariest thing on television.

"This was the scene yesterday. The following video was recorded by a store security camera and may be disturbing to some viewers."

The Scarecrow relished those words: disturbing to some viewers. Yes, seeing shoppers panic and stampede like the frightened sheep they were certainly could be disquieting. The idea that a villain could shop with them, stand in a checkout line with them and they'd be none the wiser until escape was impossible would terrify people. Make them paranoid. Make them jumpier than grasshoppers on a hot griddle whenever they went out to buy bread and eggs.

The blonde's male counterpart threw in his two cents, "Yes, that is certainly difficult to watch. Luckily, all those affected were treated successfully. A cashier suffered a head injury and is still hospitalized, but he is expected to make a full recovery within a few days. It's always good when these terrible stories have happy endings."

Crane chuckled darkly, in the way only villains could, "The end, is it? We'll see how many of those people wind up in therapy, on medication, reduced to fearful, quivering-"

"Some of us are trying to watch the news and the 'Master of Fear' act is getting a little too loud."

Ivy! She'd kissed him, her kiss had knocked him out faster than a crowbar applied to the skull, and he had no idea what she'd been up to with his unconscious body. For all Crane knew, the green redhead had sprinkled him with deadly spores that would sprout soon and drain nutrients from his body like the strangler fig did to its host tree.

"You _kissed _me!" Crane accused.

Ivy smirked and Harley gasped. She looked from Red to Crane and burst into laughter. She'd been expecting Ivy and Professor Crane to stand each others' presence, but apparently they were getting frisky when she wasn't around.

"Please, Harley, it wasn't anything like that. I had to subdue him and I didn't want to hurt him."

"What did you do to me while I was drugged? Did you plant anything on me, anything _in_ me?" Crane demanded.

"I'll explain everything I did in painfully boring scientific detail as soon as I see this news segment. And no, I didn't plant anything in, on, or around you. So calm down."

Still groused by Ivy's audacity, Crane settled down to watch some more glorifying footage. To his horror, the image that appeared on the screen was of him crawling on his hands and knees like an infant. It was the video shot by that insipid Internet hound, the one that banged on the window to get his attention. Yes, as soon as the Joker was dead and buried--or burned, or thrown in a Dumpster, or ground up, turned into inedible meat pies and served to the inmates of Arkham--Crane was definitely seeing if he couldn't get the Riddler interested in crashing YouTube and all sites like it.

"Hey, Scarecrow, look up here," The cameraman said.

The crippled, pathetic Scarecrow on the television flipped off the cameraman. A pixilated blur blocked out the offending digit. Ivy and Harley both laughed. Crane wished he had never woken up.

"That was really terrifying, Crane. I think I hear some of my plants watering themselves. Either that, or they're laughing."

"You got blurred out! It's like on that episode of _Cops_ when they arrested all the drunk, naked people and had to block out the boobs and junk." Harley said.

"Boobs and junk? That's the medical term nowadays, Harley?" Ivy asked.

"I mean the ta-tas and the hotdogs." Harley said.

Ivy rolled her eyes. It didn't matter to her whether they were male or female, censored or not. They were all body parts of the same species. Besides, wasn't Harley a little old and educated to be speaking about genitals in euphemisms?

"I don't want to watch my younger self suffer any more. Get off my feet up so I can crawl into a dark, secluded space and lick my wounds. Have a crawlspace handy, Ivy?"

"Yes, but it's currently filled with cereus cactus and evening primrose."

"Of course it is. If anyone wants me, I'm going to contort myself until I can fit in the cupboard."

With that, Crane got off the couch, took a few steps, and then started walking backwards. With a perplexed look on his face, he took another few steps forward. Then a step to the left, a step to the right, and a return to the starting position.

"Are you doin' the Time Warp?" Harley asked.

"What? Absolutely not. I simply noticed that I no longer have a limp. Curious."

"Curious and curiouser, that's what the Hatter would say." Harley said.

"And the next time I see the Hatter, the only things coming from his mouth are going to be screams. That little man is not normal. You'd like him, of course, child. Everything that irritates or attempts to injure me, you want to hug. The Joker, Mel, the Babies. Damn it all, I mean Bud and Lou!"

Harley grinned broadly at the slipup. She didn't even know why Crane tried to hide it. The hyenas had won his heart.

"I fixed that. And I treated the spider bite. And the wound to your head. What did that clown wallop you with, a brick?" Ivy asked.

"No, it was a canister of fear toxin. I can't believe I didn't notice my head was no longer engulfed in agony."

Crane cautiously put a finger to his injured head, expecting lightning bolts of pain. He got a dull throb, like a headache that was either building or diminishing but little to worry about at the moment. Something gelatinous and sticky coated his fingers and was apparently smeared all through his hair. Disgusted at the goo, he brought his probing fingers way and looked with disdain at the substance that coated them.

"What is this? It feels like something that would be discovered in a fluid-filled sac during an alien autopsy."

"Stop being so dramatic. It's just a little medicinal cream I invented. It's made entirely from plants, as is everything else I used to fix you up. I told you nature provided, and I was right, wasn't I?" Ivy asked.

"If your ego is so hungry it needs _me_ to feed it, yes, you were right. Plants are a delight. Now, I'm going to hide my shame. What room would you suggest, Isley? The attic?"

"It's home to my Sand Verbenas, though their flowering season is almost over. I had to put them up there because the attic traps heat."

"How considerate of you. Is there any place I can go where I won't be bothering your plants and they won't bother me?"

"The storage shed with Bud and Lou, but asides from that, not really. I've had some amazing luck with several species this year, and space is limited until some of them go to seed." Ivy replied.

The Scarecrow could have pulled out his hair, if it hadn't been coated in freakish plant slime. Was the couch the only island in the sea of green? Was he really going to have to sleep with Bud and Lou if he wanted to avoid creeping vines snagging him in the middle of the night.

"Maybe I should go sleep out in the yard. At least that's just grass."

"Go ahead. Harley and I will just eat dinner without you." Ivy said.

Crane's stomach made its empty state known. "Food, yes, I forgot about that."

"Guess who provided the food, Crane?"

Now it was the Scarecrow's turn to roll his eyes. "Nature."

Ivy beamed, "What do you know, the man can learn! Now if we can only teach you to sort the recycling."

The Scarecrow moaned. "After dinner, I'm going to sleep with the mutts."

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Author's Notes:

Agent Orange was a defoliant used in the Vietnam War.

Kudzu is an invasive plant species from Japan. It grows very fast and is sometimes called "the vine that ate the South" because of how widespread it is in southern American states like Georgia.

Glenn Beck, a fear-monger equal to if not surpassing the Scarecrow, has a segment called The War Room, where he makes people terrified of the future. In one discussed scenario, civil war broke out after social security fell apart and hyper-inflation made money worthless. And I thought fear toxin was bad.

_And these are probably the worst pies in Gotham_. Sorry, I'll stop.

There was an episode of _Cops_ dedicated to all the people they arrested in the buff.

Cereus cactus and evening primrose are night-blooming plants. They'd flower in the dark crawlspace.

The Time Warp was a dance on _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_. The pelvic thrusts were very important.

Sand Verbenas are flowers that thrive in hot, dry places. I don't know about your attic, my mine's hot as hell in summer.


	2. Toga! Toga!

Thanks to everyone for reviewing! You guys are great.

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Crane had feared dinner would be simply the world's longest salad bar, a continual line of dishes that offered only one color: green. Once he got to the table, however, he saw his misgivings had been unnecessary. Ivy had assembled a vegetarian lasagna that looked and smelled so close to the real thing it was easy to forget there was no meat in it. Even Harley, who seemed to have the same phobia of vegetables that her despicable laughing lover had, hardly uttered a complaint.

"Red, Red, I wanna say grace! I got somethin' real nice to say!" Harley said, raising her hand like a school kid and wiggling back and forth in her chair.

"All right, Harley. Go ahead," Ivy said.

Harley cleared her throat dramatically, as though she was about to give a speech before the UN. "Thanks, plants, for gettin' chopped up so we can eat you. I really appreciate it, 'cause I was really hungry. Thanks for makin' oxygen so we can breathe, makin' sticks so Mister J can hit people with 'em, and makin' friends for Red to take care of when I'm not around."

"Lovely," Crane muttered.

"Have anything you want to add?" Ivy asked.

"No"

The Scarecrow eyed the pan of steaming lasagna with what bordered on lust. He was salivating like one of Pavlov's trained dogs. If Ivy and Harley didn't finish their silly little prayers in the next five seconds he was jumping on the table and stuffing his face straight from the source.

"All right, then. Crane, do you want to serve the lasagna?"

"No, I want to eat it."

"I think you should serve it. I slaved over a hot oven, risked perpetuating the stereotype of woman's work, and had to use the nice tomatoes I was saving for bruschetta. I don't trust Harley not to knock the whole pan onto the floor. So pick up that knife and cut us a nice slice," Ivy said.

"You're the only person who ever encouraged me to pick up a knife. I'm sure you'll be the last." Crane said.

So as not to antagonize his host, the Scarecrow cut squares of lasagna for Harley and Ivy before feeding himself. He picked up his fork and began to excavate the lasagna. After finishing what was on his plate, he went back for seconds without needing an invitation.

After everyone had finished eating, Harley sneaked off to watch television before Ivy could rope her into helping with the dishes. Crane was kind enough to dump all the dirty plates into the sink before wandering off. Ivy, muttering how she wasn't anyone's slave, filled the sink with water and set to scrubbing.

Harley was sitting on the sofa, absorbed by some cartoon. Crane took a peek at it, noted the giggling yellow sponge and his obese pink friend, and decided he'd rather converse with Ivy's plants than watch any more. He was about to go upstairs, exploring, when Harley spotted him.

"Professor, don't you wanna watch _SpongeBob_ with me? It's a really funny episode. Patrick and SpongeBob rode the wrong bus home from Glove World and now they're trapped down in Rock Bottom. And they can't tell the boy and girl bathrooms apart." Harley said.

"Child, if Hell existed, an eternity of that show would be my punishment."

Without waiting for Harley's response, Crane climbed the stairs. He wanted to get a good mental map of the house. Whenever he moved into a new structure, he liked to become familiar with escape routes, possible ambush positions, and the best place to make a last stand should it come to that.

The first room he entered must have been the guest bedroom. Judging by the stuffed animals on the bed, the clown costume hanging in the closet, and the photograph on the wall of two hyenas eating birthday cake, this was where Harley stayed. Crane noted the window, an easy escape, and the closet, a good place to prepare a surprise attack.

The next door opened to the linen closet. It was filled with towels and sheets, all no doubt made of organically grown cotton. Crane was not going to fit on any of the shelves, and unless he planned to use a fluffy towel as a garrote, there was little in the way of weaponry. He closed the closet door and continued.

When he opened the next door, he discovered Ivy's room. It was, as expected, blooming with a rainforest of vegetation. The Scarecrow wondered how in the hell Ivy even had room to sleep. Then something from inside the confines of the room growled at him. Crane promptly slammed the door and ran away.

The only other room was the bathroom where Ivy had so easily disabled him. He had no desire to be reminded of his shame, but he had an overwhelming desire to learn where the toilet plunger was located. After living with the Joker, and having the clown purposely block up the loo just to torture the Scarecrow, Crane wanted to be prepared.

The toilet plunger was located in the little cabinet under the sink, as were a few bars of soap, some herbal shampoo that smelled like a distilled field of wild flowers, and some cleaning products that were no doubt eco-friendly. Crane wondered if any of the cleaning chemicals could be useful, then remembered they were watered down and would hardly win a battle against shower scum. Sighing, he decided to go back downstairs and poke around there.

Upon arriving in the living room, Crane noticed Ivy had usurped the television from Harley. Instead of a nautical cartoon, Al Gore was on and he had brought along his magical slideshow. The Scarecrow decided he'd pass on that, too. As many people who lived in Gotham during the winter months could tell you, a little global warming would be appreciated.

The kitchen was always a veritable armory. There were the obvious weapons anyone could see—knives, cast iron pans, heavy wooden chairs—and then the not so apparent but surprisingly efficient ones, such as the toaster. Crane smirked at the sight of the toaster. His own had died a noble death.

"If you're just going to stand there grinning, you can do something useful and take the leftovers out to the hyenas," Ivy called from the couch.

"They're carnivores. What if they don't like vegetarian lasagna?" Crane asked.

"Then throw it in a compost bin," Ivy said.

Grumbling about how the Scarecrow was not some hyena's butler, Crane gathered up the half-empty lasagna pan. He carried the pan outside and around the back of the house. The supply shed was tucked behind the house and adjacent to the greenhouse. Asides from the bags of potting soil, fertilizer, rakes, hoes, shovels, support trellises, planting pots, and other essentials Ivy needed to keep things green, the shed was also keeping Bud and Lou contained.

Long before Crane got to the shed, he could hear the hyenas whimpering and scratching at the door. They hated being restrained in such a small space, and without Harley to coo at them, they must have been practically dying of loneliness. The Scarecrow almost felt pity before reminding himself that developing empathy was far more trouble than it was worth.

"Stop your incessant crying. I've brought you food, so eat it and shut up."

Hearing his voice, the hyenas redoubled their efforts to escape. They pawed at the locked door, pressing their impressive bulk against it. The whimpering and yelping rose in pitch and frequency. Crane grimaced. This was probably what is sounded like at one of those insipid Disney-star concerts.

Holding the pan with one hand, Crane unlatched the shed door. The second it was open, Bud and Lou threw themselves out of their prison and, in infinite gratitude, mauled Crane with love. He was knocked to the ground, the pan landing on his chest and splattering its contents onto his shirt. Bud and Lou, obviously happier about getting their freedom than OJ Simpson, Robert Blake, and Hugo Selenski combined, pounced on the fallen Scarecrow.

"No! Get off of me; I don't want your kind of love!"

In response, the mutts started slobbering all over his face. Bud stepped on Crane's hand, nearly crushing his fingers. Lou became interested in the strange goo Ivy had used to treat the Scarecrow's head injuries, and decided to sample it. The hyena ended up backing away, pawing at his mouth and trying to get rid of the unspeakably bitter taste.

"You hideous, mangy, flea-bitten beasts! Bud, I'll skin you and make you into a fur coat. Let me up and keep your paws to yourself."

Crane was finally able to regain his feet. He glared at the two hyenas. Lou was now eating grass in a last-ditch effort to get the pungent taste from his mouth. Bud lost interest in his savior and was investigating the battered lasagna pan, his stubby brush of a tail wagging happily as he did so.

"That was for you and now I'm wearing it. Damn it! I haven't got another change of clothing and I am not wearing pasta to bed. So help me, if I can't find anything else to wear, I'm coming out here with a knife and I'm taking someone's pelt."

Bud and Lou weren't interested in Crane's personal problems. Irked by the destruction they'd caused, the Scarecrow dumped out what little lasagna was still in the pan. He then wiped as much of the mess off his shirt as possible. He walked back towards the house. Let Harley pen the furry barbarians back up; he was going to clean himself off.

As soon as he walked in the door, Harley glanced up at him. Her eyes were glazed with boredom; apparently Al Gore wasn't as entertaining as a talking porous square. After taking him in for a few seconds, her eyes began to widen and her mouth fell open.

"Professor!" Harley gasped.

Having no idea what was provoking her reaction, Crane turned around, half-expecting to see Mel had followed him into the house. There was no giant plant standing in the doorway. The only thing Crane saw was his own reflection in the door's small, square window.

Staring at his own image for a moment, the Scarecrow figured it out. The tomato sauce from the lasagna had soaked his shirt and even flecked on his face and arms. The color of the sauce looked startlingly like blood. Crane looked, especially in the relatively dim light of the living room, like he'd had a very ugly meet-up with Victor Zsasz.

"Calm down, Harley. It's just tomato sauce. Your pets knocked me over and the lasagna landed on me." The Scarecrow said.

"Blood would have almost been better. It's not as stubborn a stain as tomato juice. I hope you aren't too fond of that shirt," Ivy said. She's hardly looked up from the former Vice President. Maybe if Crane had walked in with a dandelion he'd pulled out of the lawn she'd show a little reaction.

"Yes, but I like my vital fluids in my body, where they can do the job of keeping me alive. And I happen to not only like but _need_ this shirt. I haven't got anything else to wear and I don't intend to strut around in your bra, "The Scarecrow replied. A moment later he realized how disturbing of an image he in one of Isley's brassieres was.

Harley apparently had the same mental image, because she was snorting laughter. Crane scowled at her. She laughed harder. The Scarecrow was beginning to get annoyed because his deadly glares had no effect on anyone anymore.

"I wasn't about to offer you my _bra_ but I do have a shirt that for some strange reason doubled in size the first time I washed it. Since you're going to be a sarcastic bastard about it, though, you can just wrap a towel around your shoulders and call it a toga," Isley said.

"I'd rather not dress like Nero, thank you." Crane replied.

"Then wear tomatoes. I don't care."

Grinding his teeth, the Scarecrow threw the empty lasagna pan in the sink. Then he stomped upstairs to the linen closet. He stripped off his soiled shirt, threw it on the floor, and selected a towel. Trying to ignore the fact that it featured a floral design, Crane did as Ivy recommended. He wasn't about to go and check in the mirror, but he supposed he probably looked quite like a gayer than usual Tiberius.

Slouching around in his floral toga, the Scarecrow was unsure of what to do. He didn't want to go downstairs where Ivy and Harley could laugh themselves into a coma over his new and far-from-scary look, but he didn't want to remain in close proximity to whatever creatures lurked in Ivy's room. Finally the fear of unknown life forms won him over and he decided to see what sad polar bear pictures Al Gore was using.

Mercifully for Crane, Ivy and Harley had left the living room and were distracted at the front door. Bud and Lou had finished the lasagna and had come seeking their matriarch. The drooling duo was attacking the door, their claws scraping at the paint, and raising a racket. Ivy was shouting for Harley to get them back in the shed before she had them composted, and Harley was begging Red to let the Babies in because it wasn't right to keep them locked up like criminals. The Scarecrow took control of the TV, tried to block out Ivy's fury, Harley's pleading, and the hyenas' yapping.

Switching off Al Gore in the middle of a spiel about boiling frogs, Crane channel-surfed for something scary. Ivy didn't have a great deal to offer in the way of programming. Asides from Harley's cartoon channels, most of the shows seemed to be about nature. The idea of watching grass grow didn't strike Crane's fancy, and neither did a program on how bio-diesel came to be.

"Get them out to the shed before I get my crossbow!" Ivy roared.

The Scarecrow hastily turned the channel back to Al Gore. Poison Ivy, it seemed, was a great deal more frightening than anything he was likely to find on the screen. He didn't want her to bring that shrieking wrath down on him next.

Ivy slammed the door, presumably shutting Harley and the hyenas out. She stalked back into the living room, her anger rising from her in almost visible waves.

"You let them out of the shed."

"No, they broke out. And they knocked me over, slobbered on me like a chew toy, and made me filthy," Crane replied.

For one moment it appeared like Ivy was going to get the crossbow, but then she pushed the Scarecrow over and sat down on the couch. She sighed loudly. Crane tried not to look at her, lest she think he was ogling her or something.

"Harley should be occupied for a while. She's actually going to tell those _things_ a bedtime story! Can you imagine it, Crane?"

"Yes, actually. I lived with Harley and the Joker for weeks. They weren't nice weeks, but I did learn more about the both of them than I ever desired to. For instance, never let the Joker cook his own meals. He burns the curtains."

Ivy sighed again, this time without so much rage. "Do you want to get started, Toga-boy?"

"Started on what?" Crane asked. He hardly avoided tacking on some insidiously stupid plant-themed nickname, like 'Veggie Woman' or 'Tuber-lass'. The thought of Ivy concocting a nickname he hated more than Johnny the Mop Man restrained him.

"On killing the Joker, of course! What did you think I was talking about, a memoir?"

The Scarecrow said, "If we did write memoirs, I think they'd be best-sellers. The next time I find myself staring at the wall in Arkham, I'll pen my life's story."

"Great. Don't send me a copy and make sure it's printed on recycled paper or I'll find you. Now, do you want to get to work?"

"Absolutely."

The Scarecrow and his new partner in crime turned the kitchen into their war room. They each took a chair and began to ponder the many logistical problems involved with murdering one of the most feared men in the world.

"He's doubtlessly back in Arkham, so I suppose we should wait for him to escape. Breaking into Arkham poses a whole set of problems, and there are a few people there I am not particularly eager to see anytime soon," Crane said.

"All right, that's a good idea. We'll wait for the clown to get out. It probably won't be long. I don't suppose you know if Batman broke any of his bones, do you?" Ivy asked.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the clown's on life support. I've seen the Batman angry, but he looked like someone had pissed in his bat-Cheerios. I don't suppose Harley and I escaping put him in a better mood."

"So we should have at least days to finalize this. Maybe weeks. Oh, I hope that abusing swine's in unbearable pain," Ivy said.

"I don't normally find myself rooting for Batman, but I hope he administered the single most savage beating ever recorded."

"Knocked that hideous grin right off the clown's face."

"Kicked his teeth in."

"Ruptured his spleen."

"Snapped him in half like a tw- I mean a potato chip."

"Nice save. Let's forget about what Batman did to him and concentrate on what _we're_ going to do to him. At least for a little while. We can go back to fantasizing later."

The door banged open and a dejected Harley crawled in. "The Babies are sleepin'. Are you sure they can't share my room, Red? Red? Where'd you go?"

Harley soon spotted the missing botanist in the kitchen, her face only inches from Professor Crane's. The two of them looked deeply engaged. They were whispering like a pair of conspirators or Russian spies and an alarming fervor glowed in their eyes. Mister J got that look when he had a real good plan hit him out of the blue.

"Uh, are you guys plottin' something?" Harley asked cautiously.

"No! Of course not, Harley," Ivy said hastily.

"No. Of course not," Crane mimed. Ivy glared at him for being dense.

Before Harley could ask any more questions, Ivy grabbed Crane's hand and yanked him from the table. They were out of the room and up the stairs in seconds. Harley heard a door upstairs slam shut.

They were definitely going to shag.

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Author's Notes:

Pavlov trained dogs to salivate at the sound of a ringing bell. I suspect he lived a lonely life and had a lot of spare time.

Bruschetta is an Italian dish made with grilled bread, garlic, olive oil, and then any number of toppings such as tomatoes, cheese, or peppers.

That is a real episode of _SpongeBob_. It's titled Rock Bottom.

OJ Simpson, Robert Blake, and Hugo Selenski were all acquitted of murder. The first two are famous, but I chose Selenski as the third because I live roughly 25 minutes from where his crimes took place. He had my whole region in an uproar.

The Roman emperor Tiberius liked little boys. Let's leave it at that.

In _An Inconvenient Truth_, Al Gore explains that a frog placed into very hot water will hop right out while a frog placed in cool water that is slowly heated won't realize what's going on until it's cooked. Or rescued, as he hopes. The boiled frog is a metaphor for people not seeing danger if the danger amasses gradually, like global warming.

Next chapter will feature the Joker.


	3. I Need Better Henchmen

Thanks for the reviews!

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The thing Batman dragged into Arkham Asylum looked more like the gelatinous blobs of mysterious flesh that occasionally washed up onto beaches and stoked sea monster fears than it looked like a man. If not for the purple suit, dyed maroon by what seemed like gallons of blood, identifying the person would have been difficult. It might even have required fingerprinting or DNA analysis, since a dental match was impossible; the Joker's smile had been halved.

A gaggle of guards and doctors stared at Batman and the Joker as though they were two exotic specimens. Nobody came forward to relieve Batman of the unconscious clown, and no one bothered to call the infirmary and warn them that a severely destroyed psychotic killer would soon be on his way down. Batman's scowl, sunk so deep into his face the frown-lines looked like scars, kept everyone at a distance of no less than ten feet.

Batman pulled the bloodied Joker along like a dog. The cluster of Arkham employees followed tentatively, as though they were afraid Batman would spin around and attack them next. Most of them were secretly hoping the Joker was either dead or mortally wounded and soon to die.

When Batman pushed open the doors to the infirmary, the attending doctor gasped and dropped her clipboard. She was still relatively new at Arkham, and the shock of seeing a giant bat appear without warning hadn't yet worn off. Given a few more months, she'd be greeting Batman with a firm handshake and then turning to examine whoever he had caught and kindly returned.

The doctor hastily collected her fallen clipboard and then noticed the vaguely human thing Batman had brought with him. She stared at it. That couldn't be the Joker, could it? She pulled a pen from her breast pocket and prodded the body with it. It didn't move. She inched a little closer and used the pen to raise the upper lip. If this was the Joker, his trademark smile had been demolished.

"What happened to his teeth?"

Batman pulled a plastic bag from his utility belt and handed it to the doctor. Ten or so teeth rattled around inside it like tiny bones.

"Oh, nasty. Okay, Batman, sir, would you mind putting the Joker on a bed somewhere? I need to call our oral specialist if those teeth are ever going to have a chance."

Doing as the doctor asked, Batman hefted the Joker onto an empty bed. A patient not far away stopped feigning sleep and watched with curiosity.

"A riddle for you, Bats. If you know the clown is never going to recover, why do you keep bringing him back?"

Batman fixed the Riddler with a glare that could have burned the surface of the sun. Nigma hastily rolled over, pulled his covers up, and made himself invisible.

The doctor returned with a much older man in tow. He was a grizzled, gray-haired Arkham veteran, and on occasion, veterinarian. He was the only man alive to have ever willingly reached into Killer Croc's mouth. When it came to teeth and mandibles, he knew everything there was to know about them.

"Dr. George Frank, pleased to meet you, Batman. You've kept me busy for plenty of years. I don't think I could estimate how many teeth I've replaced or how many broken jaws I've wired shut."

The doctor didn't shake hands because he was all ready wearing rubber gloves. Instead, Frank got right down to business. Calling for a chair to be set down and for the bag of teeth to be brought over, the dental specialist started to work his magic.

Though his outward mask didn't crack, inside Batman felt an enormous wave of relief. The Joker was safely back in Arkham, Bruce could hang up the cowl for the night, and he could finally get some ice for his throbbing head. When Alfred saw just how large of a lump the toaster attack had raised on Batman's head, the butler was going to pitch a fit. He would also probably offer to come down to Arkham and finish the Joker off with his own two hands.

"Thanks for bringing him-" The young doctor said only to find the room bat-free. As she would also learn in the coming months, Batman tended to vanish as quickly and mysteriously as he appeared.

The Joker remained unconscious while Dr. Frank did his best to fix the clown's smile. Later, even as a pair of orderlies removed the clown from his bloody and torn clothing and stuffed him into a clean uniform, he remained as limp as a wet noodle. When the Riddler got up the courage to investigate if the clown was really as unresponsive at the doctors believed, the Joker showed all the life of Nicholas Cage's movie career. Despite the tapping, insults, and the use of several hideously bad puns, the Joker didn't respond.

Morning came and went. Edward Nigma gave up the charade of having swine flu and went to get breakfast. The Joker remained behind in his bed, hooked up to machines that beeped rhythmically. The doctors, guards, and the general inmate population liked him a great deal more when he was borderline comatose.

While Poison Ivy and the Scarecrow hatched their first rudimentary plan, the Joker continued to exhibit no signs of consciousness. A doctor checked on him periodically. Nobody was really all that concerned about the clown's health. Their combined moral fiber was a little too tightly woven to allow them to ignore him until he died, but it was widely agreed that should he crash, nobody was going to administer CPR.

The Joker did not crash, despite many honest and earnest prayers that he would. At a little past midnight, he blinked, groaned, and began to demand morphine and lots of it. To shut him up at least until her shift was over, a nurse gave the clown what he wanted. A minute or so after the painkillers were administered, the Joker drifted back to sleep and began to snore.

Several miles away, Harley, Bud and Lou were also snoring. Crane and Isley were not. As the old saying went, there was no rest for the wicked.

Without Harley to bother them or catch wind of their plan, the Scarecrow and Ivy brainstormed like mad. Using a white board, and saving perhaps hundreds of sheets of paper, the two villains mapped out various scenarios, back-up plans and strategies. Few wars in history had been planned better, and several had been planned far worse.

"And what do we do if he decides to bring a few friends with him from Arkham? You know, some of his breakouts have been pretty spectacular. I hate him, but I can't say I've ever stayed behind on principle," Ivy said.

"Depends on who they are," Crane replied. "If he's got a few zombies he can order around, I say we simply kill them. If they're people we know, like Two-Face or Nigma, I say we just gas them with fear toxin or something of that nature. I don't think either of them is actually stupid enough to join with the Joker, but if he offered them two-dollar bills or a Rubik's Cube..."

"They can't be that easy to bribe."

"I wouldn't be surprised. Two-Face has amazingly low standards. Did you know he once robbed a bank but only took two million dollars in two-dollar bills? He didn't bother with the larger denominations. Why would they keep that many two-dollar bills in one location, anyway?" Crane wondered.

Ivy shrugged. She had never really sat down and pondered how banking in Gotham worked, or why, despite hundreds of robberies, the tellers and customers still couldn't identify any of the rogues before all hell broke loose. You'd think after being held at gunpoint by a man dressed in a two-tone suit, you'd learn to be more cautious.

"All right, so if they're random inmates, we kill them. If they're friends, we only traumatize them. That sounds fine to me." Ivy said.

"My _associates_, not friends. I don't go out of my way to socialize with any of them," the Scarecrow replied.

Rolling her eyes at Crane, Ivy picked up the dry-erase board and made a few notations. Most of the white board was covered in what appeared to be secret code. Abbreviations, seemingly random squiggles, a stick figure or two, what looked like the battle plan of a football coach, different geometric shapes, and the occasional full word or sentence gave the board a feel of not-so-controlled chaos. To any outside viewer, the plans would have been as impossible to decipher as the Wind Talkers' codes were to the Japanese.

Crane stretched in his seat, limbering up his back and long limbs. Several joints popped and his vertebra made a noise reminiscent of a small firecracker. Once his body stopped making odd sounds, the Scarecrow was ready for a few more hours of sitting and scheming.

"Wow. Maybe you should have named yourself the Tin Man instead of the Scarecrow, because you definitely sound like you've got some rust in you," Ivy said.

"When I die, if Judy Garland or Ray Bolger is there, I'm going to kill them all over again," Crane said.

"Why don't you look for Frank Baum while you're at it?" Ivy asked.

"Maybe I will."

"You're not a very forgiving person, are you?"

"I wouldn't be here planning the Joker's murder down to the most infinitesimal detail if I was. No, if I was forgiving, I would be an entirely different man. I'd probably have a few shiny humanitarian awards to hang on my wall, a job that paid, and a horse. Or maybe a wife. No, I'd rather the horse."

"I thought it was ten-year-old girls who were supposed to want ponies," Ivy said.

"There's a difference between a horse and a pony. A pony will always be shorter than 14 hands, while a horse will be taller. I strictly desire a horse."

"And now I know."

Crane's brain had the habit of absorbing useless and random bits of data from all sources. Even on topics he had no desire to learn about. He doubted telling Ivy that he knew the names of all the Jonas Brothers would impress her.

"And knowledge is power. Of course, you can be as stupid as a squirrel that doesn't know how to cross the road and still wield power. As long as you've got guns or bombs or the divine right of kings on your side," The Scarecrow said.

They had no guns, they had no bombs, Ivy was a woman and could never be a king, and Crane didn't believe in anything divine. They did have a giant Venus flytrap, but the Scarecrow doubted if Mel would be very useful. From what he could tell, the flytrap was firmly rooted in the ground and while its vines had an extensive reach, they could not grab the Joker if he was more than twenty-five feet from the toothed core of the plant. Both he and Ivy routinely relied on poison to do their dirty work, but the clown was immune to seemingly everything. It would be incredibly stupid to take on the Joker, who was bound to be armed, with none of their own weapons.

"We need to arm ourselves," Crane said.

"All right. What do you suggest?"

"How would you feel about stealing, let's say, a tank?"

"A tank? You mean a 60 ton vehicle that neither of us has any experience with and that has even lower fuel-efficiency than a Hummer? A vehicle the Army would happily kill us to get back? No thank you. Try downsizing a little," Ivy said.

"What if we mounted a grenade launcher on an electric vehicle?"

"I don't think a Volt would get very far with a grenade launcher strapped to it."

"You do have a point. There's a reason they don't use alternative energy to fuel fighter jets. I suppose amphibious assault vehicles are out, too. Shame, I always wanted to drive one of them."

"Let's avoid pissing off the military in general. This is Gotham. The black market is probably worth more than the stock market. Don't you have some connections with the underbelly? I mean, I don't think you make every single ingredient to your scary toxin," Ivy said.

The Scarecrow did indeed have tenuous connections with various ne'er-do-wells, but he didn't like to call on any of them too often. A few of his most reliable had lighted out for the territories after he lost his temper over a shoddy batch of ingredients and poisoned them. The assortment of idiots he currently relied upon were little more than cocaine mules, and he didn't trust the quality of their wares. They'd probably try to hock old Soviet guns and grenades that either didn't explode or couldn't wait to explode.

"I have under my employment, for lack of a better word, a man who once impaled his own tongue while eating pancakes, a man who needs help tying his shoes, and a man who tried to rob a convenience store while wearing his mother's dress. I can hardly trust them to make a timely delivery or find an address. Unless we want pistols that blow up in our hands and drive shrapnel into our brains, I wouldn't recommend any of them."

"In his mother's dress…Crane, let's avoid your people entirely. Tomorrow night, once Harley goes to bed, we'll see if we can't find someone who isn't so useless," Ivy said.

Was Ivy suggesting they traipse around the slums and alleys of Gotham in the middle of the night with no protection except their lethal reputations? Crane had on numerous occasions been forced to seek refuge among the most derelict of the population. Those had not been positive experiences. Even though he had been in full costume, a few of the crazier homeless had still taken their chances. If they would attack him simply because he was there, the Scarecrow had to admit he feared for Ivy's safety. She was beautiful by any standard, and would shine like a beacon to the depraved denizens of Gotham's underworld.

"Worried about me, Scarecrow? Don't you think a woman can defend herself?" Ivy asked.

"As though I'd care enough to worry about you. I simply don't want to find myself surrounded by a group of thugs and rapists. You are fully capable of killing someone, but there are no plants where you're suggesting we go. Not even weeds. We would be forced to rely on our infamy and recognition," Crane said.

Ivy gave Crane an enigmatic smile that did little to ease him. "Believe me, I am _never_ defenseless. If anyone tries anything, I have more than one secret weapon."

"What kind of secret weapon? A taser hidden in your bosom?"

"Are you trying to get me annoyed with you, or do you just have an obsession with my breasts?"

Crane's first instinct was to crawl under the table like a beaten dog before he died of embarrassment. He had no idea why he had set himself up for such a blow—or why he made so many uncharacteristic comments about Ivy's bra and the _things_ it held in place—but he was most certainly not interested in anything Ivy was packing. He was interested in her research, her partnership, her violent vengeance and desire to have the Joker's head. That was it.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone go that color before," Ivy commented.

The Scarecrow didn't think it was possible to save face at this point. Ivy would forever know he blushed just as badly as he did when he was a gangly, rejected teenager, and she would torture him just to get the same reaction. He'd shown her a weakness, and women were horrible predators.

"Shut up," Crane muttered.

"Don't be so sensitive, Scarecrow. I won't say I strictly _mind_ the attention. At least you have the decency not to touch," Ivy said.

"If I touched, how long would it be before my arm began to necrotize?" Crane asked, more out of sarcasm than curiosity.

"It would depend on whether I actually wanted to kill you or turn you into my mindless slave."

Crane blanched. "Your slave?"

"Oh yes. That's my secret weapon. Tomorrow night, if we don't get some cooperation, I'll give you a demonstration."

Now he remembered. Ivy had the power to ensnare men with unique plant pheromones. One kiss could flood a person with enough intoxicating chemicals to turn him into a love-drunk robot.

The Scarecrow was not an emphatic man; he looked upon most of his fellow human beings as viable test subjects. He did feel a little sympathy for any man who crossed Ivy, though. It was a simple camaraderie that ran deeper and stronger than apathy between members of the male sex. Seeing a man destroyed by a woman made other men uneasy, in the same way seeing a man's groin severely injured made another man instinctively cover his own crotch.

"I'm dying of anticipation," Crane said.

"I bet you are. You know, I've never bothered to team up with a man before. I think you should be honored for the opportunity."

The Scarecrow almost banged his face against the table. Poison Ivy counted him worthy enough to bask in her presence. He was the luckiest nerd on the face of the Earth.

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Author's Notes: Oh Nicholas Cage. When your best film in recent memory casts you as a biker with a flaming head, it's time to retire.

The Wind-Talkers were Navajo soldiers who were able to thwart Japanese code-breakers during World War II. The Navajo language couldn't be decoded by the Japanese, so US plans for several battles of the Pacific campaign remained secret.

In an episode of B:TAS called _Almost Got 'Im_, Two-Face does steal two million dollars in two-dollar bills. He also attempts to kill Batman by squashing him with a giant penny.

In _The Wizard of Oz_, Judy Garland played Dorothy and Ray Bolger was the Scarecrow. L. Frank Baum wrote the original _Oz _books.

The tank specifications I used were from the M1 Abrams tank. It gets .6 miles to the gallon.

There is a self-defense company that manufactures a bra that has a special pouch for pepper spray or tasers.


	4. His Noodly Appendage

Well, this should have been up two days ago, but the site decided to bullshit me with a processing error. Sorry for the delay.

Thanks for the reviews!

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Harley awoke to the sound of birds chirping, which momentarily freaked her out. She was so accustomed to being startled out of sleep by either the blaring horn of some short-tempered motorist or the Joker demanding breakfast that she had almost forgotten what waking up to nature sounded like. Once she caught her bearings, she decided to see if anyone else had gotten up yet. Red was usually an early riser and she might already have breakfast cooking.

Harley padded out into the hall. She was dressed in a pink nightgown she had borrowed from Ivy. Whenever Harley visited Red, it was always fun to raid her closet. Ivy didn't have as many clothes as most women, but what she did have never failed to flatter Harley's curves. Dressing up with Ivy's stuff was a lot more fun that wearing Mister J's clothes; when he caught Harley parading around in his tie, he normally tried to strangle her with it.

The house was silent. Maybe Red and Professor Crane were still sleeping? What time was it, anyway? The sun was definitely out, and it looked like dawn had broken at least an hour ago, but Harley wasn't sure. She seemed to have forgotten her sun dial at home.

The first place she checked was Ivy's bedroom. It was empty. Well, empty of Ivy, at least. There were still probably a thousand or so individual plant species in there.

Ivy wasn't in the bathroom or in the closet. Harley went downstairs and spotted her friend sleeping on the couch. Ivy had not changed, and was sleeping in the same clothes she had worn yesterday. Her left arm was draped over her stomach while her right one hung off the couch. Red looked so cute asleep Harley walked by on tip-toes so as not to wake her.

Crane had fallen asleep in his chair. He was slumped over the table and he was using a marker board as a pillow. That couldn't have been very comfortable at all. Harley gingerly stepped closer, trying to walk with all the agility of a fleet-footed elf of Tolkien lore.

The Scarecrow was not a peaceful sleeper; he had writhed and twisted in his sleep, transferring most of the murder plans from the dry-erase board to his own body. His face, makeshift toga, and hands had all been smudged with black. His whole upper half had been used essentially like a giant eraser, randomly wiping away lines as he tossed and turned.

Still pretending she was Lord Elrond, Harley stepped closer to the Scarecrow. She wanted to see what had been written on the board he was snoozing upon. Most of the lines, Harley saw, had been smeared out of existence. What little was left made no sense. She squinted at a few depleted diagrams and blurred words before deciding the Riddler would probably be defeated by the mess in front of her.

"Hey, Professor, you wanna get up and keep me company?" Harley asked.

Crane showed all the consciousness of someone scoring straight ones on the Glasgow coma scale. Harley extended a finger and poked him in the shoulder. Her hand made brief contact before zipping back like a recoiling tape measure.

When the Scarecrow didn't respond, she poked him harder. His hands clenched and then relaxed, his long fingers brushing against one of the few patches of board that still had some legibility to it. He showed no other signs of rising out of the Land of Nod.

Like the Joker, Harley didn't deal with boredom well. With nobody to keep her company, unless she wanted to walk all the way out to the shed and see if the Babies were awake, she'd be lonely. Harley didn't deal with loneliness all that well, either; she was like a dog, in that way. Abandon her in a room without a TV for five minutes and she would be eating the stuffing out of the couch just to pass the time.

Harley flicked the Scarecrow's nose. He snorted that time, but didn't blink his eyes. Remembering a trick Mister J had that never failed to wake her up, Harley licked her finger and jammed it in Crane's ear.

Crane awoke with a grunt and a sudden flailing of the limbs. He kicked the table with a thrashing leg, bumped his knee, and knocked Harley in the nose with a wayward fist. She hurriedly backed up and out of range.

"No, no, I will _not_ touch you there, clown!"

There was no way not to interpret that sentence badly. Harley forgot about the sting in her nose and giggled. Her bubbly laughter snapped the Scarecrow out of the lingering nightmare and grounded him firmly in reality.

"What were you dreamin' about, Professor?" Harley asked.

"Oh. Oh! Oh damn it."

"Do I need to get the anatomically correct dollies so you can show me?"

"It was nothing like that," Crane snapped.

"Then what was it?"

"He wanted me to rub his putrid feet."

"That's it? A foot massage doesn't mean anything," Harley said.

"It may not be in the same ballpark as other kinds of _touching_," Crane spat the word out as he would a mouthful of vinegar, "but it is certainly in the same league."

Harley disagreed. "No way. Foot rubbin' and gettin' jiggy with it ain't even the same sport."

"Would you give another woman a foot massage?" Crane asked.

Harley paused for a minute. "Uh, maybe Red, but I don't think so."

"Now imagine that awkwardness multiplied to the seventh or eighth power. That is what it would feel like for me to massage any man's feet. Raise it to perhaps the fiftieth power and add heavy doses of rage and disgust, and that is what I would feel rubbing the Joker's feet," The Scarecrow replied.

"Okay, okay, but I wouldn't get jiggy with another woman, either."

"Who's getting what now?" Ivy asked.

Poison Ivy chose that moment to make her lurking presence. She'd been awakened by Crane's initial outburst, but hadn't been all that eager to investigate. The use of 'clown' and 'touch' in the same sentence made her sick both to her stomach and to her soul.

"It's nothing at all to be concerned about. Harley had the misfortune of waking me while I was having a nightmare. I was slow in coming to my senses," Crane said.

"Yep, he looked like one of those wacky, wavin', inflatable arm-flailin' tube-men. Jeez, try sayin' that five times fast," Harley said.

"Try saying it once," Ivy responded.

"I resembled a flailing, arm-waving what?"

While Harley taught her friends about the marvelous tube-men, her Puddin' was learning how to eat with only the benefit of a drinking straw. The Joker's jaw felt like it was composed of pain, rusty nails, and crushed glass instead of bone. Even with strong painkillers, accidentally brushing a terrifyingly loose tooth with his tongue hurt so bad he wanted to kill someone. Namely Batman. And then the nurses and doctors who were so smug about his suffering. One of the bastard little white-coats had the balls to tell him he deserved, _actually deserved_, to have his teeth knocked out! As soon as he was able to, he was going to find that smarmy doctor and beat his head in with a bedpan.

Everyone else in Arkham—not counting Killer Croc who had long ago lost the ability to use a fork and the restraint to not eat his fellow inmates—was sitting down to a hearty plate of yellow goo that was supposed to be scrambled eggs. The Joker was trying to sip some ginger ale through a bendy straw. The Arkham employees who normally walked on egg shells around the clown now dared to openly mock him when the straw escaped his lips. As soon as he was in less agony, they were all corpses. Each and every last one of them.

"Hey, Bozo, anything I can do for you?" A guard with the rough proportions of King Kong asked.

"You can tell that cow with the medicine cart my morphine's four minutes over-due," The Joker replied. He went back to trying to recapture his straw.

"Nah, I think you'll be okay for a while longer."

"I want my morphine and I want it now!"

"Suck it up, clown-boy."

The glass of ginger ale came flying at the audacious guard like a fizzy missile. The guard watched with mild interest as the plastic cup—as though anyone would be stupid enough to give the Joker actual _glass_—landed several feet in front of him. The soda spilled out and the shatter-resistant plastic bounced without sustaining any cracks.

Batman had unleashed a good portion of his Bat-wrath on the Joker's face but he had gotten a few good blows spread over the rest of the clown. Chucking the glass aggravated these numerous aches and bruises. Moaning like Myrtle the depressed, spectacled ghost, the clown collapsed onto his less-than-luxurious hospital bed.

"Somebody's going to have to mop up this ginger ale. For making extra work, I think you should just lay there and hurt for a while," the guard said.

The Joker's body ached and his mouth was such a source of continual agony that he almost wished he'd been born a hagfish. To make matters worse, his stomach decided to start growling. It wasn't as though he didn't sorely want to eat; if the Flying Spaghetti Monster came to him, touched him with the Noodly Appendage and healed him, the Joker would have happily devoured the other inmates' breakfasts, Styrofoam serving trays and all. It was just indescribably painful to even think about chewing something.

A janitor arrived five minutes later, mop and wheeled bucket in tow. It was obvious he was nervous about cleaning so close to the Joker, despite the clown's current state. Normally, the Joker would have tormented the janitor, whom he had nicknamed "Sweepy", until he broke into a sweat and started praying in Spanish. The Clown Prince was so deeply immersed in misery, however, he couldn't make even one slightly racist and very disturbing joke at the custodian's expense.

As he was leaving, Sweepy gave the Joker a contemptuous glare, "Finally, some justice for you, _hijo de puta_."

Even the janitor, a man whose sole purpose in life was doing chores, insulted him. The Joker wanted to kill Sweepy and then jam his mop into one of the guard's orifices. He wasn't quite sure which one, yet; they all were special in their own way.

Half an hour later, the Joker was sweating like a parka-clad Eskimo in the middle of the Sahara. There was general, ambient agony and the truly horrendous pain in his face. It felt like the bones were undergoing some kind of contorted metamorphosis, like in a horror movie when someone transformed into a werewolf.

Just when he thought the pain was going to drive him sane, a doctor showed up to ease his suffering. She hadn't particularly wanted to alleviate the clown's pain—she was sure it was karma getting revenge—but she held her Hippocratic Oath to the highest regard. She had a duty to help every and anyone, regardless of their crimes.

"I-I love you. When I kill everyone here, I'll make sure you die best," The Joker said. He was in ecstasy as the morphine took effect.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you making threats so I don't have to report you. Now lay here and don't talk to anyone else."

Drifting along on a sea of medication, the Joker grinned stupidly. He forgot about being pissed like a bear and just enjoyed the sensation. Drugged haze was so much more pleasant than the feeling of bones being wrenched apart and teeth being dug out with pliers.

At Wayne Manor, Bruce would have certainly appreciated a little morphine himself. His head no longer pounded in a way that suggested it was going to rupture like an infected appendix, but it still felt _cracked_. Of all the ways a man's head could feel, cracked had to be one of the worst.

"Not quite right yet, Master Wayne?"

Bruce looked up from the hearty breakfast Alfred had prepared for him. He'd been trying to enjoy it, but bacon required chewing, and chewing seemed to be the equivalent of a kick to the cranium at that point. The butler was too sharp not to notice the continued wincing.

"No, Alfred, and it's been two days. I can't afford to take another night off. I need to track down Harley and the Scarecrow before they devise something horrible. I have no idea what they'd come up with, but I know it wouldn't be pretty," Bruce replied.

"If I may say so, confronting two sociopaths while you can't even eat without pain would be a foolish move. I can do very little for you should you return home with a perfectly flat surface where your face used to be," Alfred said.

There was an image he didn't need. Batman could imagine it happening, too. Harley coming at him in his current state, bringing that cartoonish mallet of hers down, smashing his face in. Suddenly the pain in his skull spiked.

"That won't happen, Alfred. I'd have to be on my deathbed before I let Quinn and Crane get the jump on me."

"You did let a clown wielding a toaster get the jump on you, sir,"

"That's different."

"How so?"

"I've never been attacked by a toaster before. I wasn't quick enough to think up a counter-strategy."

"Did you consider throwing the microwave or perhaps the can opener at the Joker?"

"Thanks for the comic relief, Alfred. Why don't you see if we have any more Tylenol?"

Leaving Bruce to suffer through breakfast, the butler went in search of non-prescription medication. When he was gone, Bruce dropped his fork and grabbed his head. He needed to find Harley and the Scarecrow before they cooked up some bipolar, half-hilarious, half-horrifying plan and unleashed it on Gotham. Batman couldn't take off any more sick days.

Alfred returned with a plastic bottle of Tylenol. Bruce accepted the bottle and shook out roughly three times the recommended dose. Alfred raised his eyebrows but didn't protest. If Master Wayne wanted his kidneys to shut down, he was old enough to make that decision for himself, so long as he did not expect his butler to donate a kidney should he require an organ transplant.

"I think I'll skip breakfast for now, Alfred. I'm going to lay down and hope this migraine goes away. Wake me up for lunch, alright?" Bruce asked.

"Of course, sir. Are you hungry for anything in particular?"

"Something soft that doesn't require much chewing."

"Baby food, perhaps?"

"You should have been a comedian," Bruce said.

Bruce left the table and headed for his bedroom. This was the most persistent headache he could ever remember having, but he'd have it beaten by tonight. If not beaten, then at least under control. He was Batman. He wasn't defeated by clowns, scarecrows, thugs, mobsters, appliances, and certainly not by a bump on the head. By tonight, he'd be out on the trail of the two villains. With luck, he could have them sitting in Arkham by morning.

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Author's Notes:

In _Lord of the Rings_, the Elves were so light-footed they could walk atop snow without sinking in.

The Glasgow Coma Scale measures how deep of a coma a person is in using several criteria. The lower the score, the deeper the coma.

The foot massage conversation is blatantly stolen from _Pulp Fiction_.

The wacky, waving, inflatable, arm-flailing tube-man was a skit on _Family Guy_.

Moaning Myrtle was a ghost from _Harry Potter_ who regularly cried while flying around the girls' bathroom.

A hagfish is a jawless fish.

The Flying Spaghetti Monster is the deity of the Pastafarian religion. He touches people and supposedly created the world with his 'Noodly Appendage'.

_Hijo de puta_ is Spanish for 'son of a prostitute' but is usually translated as 'son of a bitch'.


	5. Urban Cowboys

Thanks for the reviews! You guys are great.

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The day passed with far more normalcy and order than Crane could have ever believed possible. Even with Ivy, Harley, himself, Bud, Lou and Mel the flytrap co-existing so close together, nobody was killed or maimed, no limbs were eaten, and only two square yards of lawn were dug up when the hyenas were finally let out of the shed. Harley mostly played with her Babies and watched TV, Crane hid from Harley and her mind-rotting shows, and Ivy kvetched about how much electricity a twenty minute cartoon wasted. It was as close to mundane as three wanted villains could ever get.

Once the sun set, Harley decided to sneak her hyenas upstairs to her room so they wouldn't have to live in the supply shed anymore. It felt too cruel to lock the Babies away like dark family secrets. If she could get them in the closet and shut the doors, Red might be none the wiser.

"Is there a little blonde clown and two hyenas sneaking behind my back?" Ivy asked.

Crane looked out and immediately spotted Harley. The clown put a finger to her lips and made hushing gestures. The Scarecrow nodded and Harley hurried up the stairs.

"Yes, there is. Just let her go for tonight, though. If she has them, she won't be preoccupied with what we're doing. I think it would be best for her to remain ignorant until the Joker's literal blood pudding," Crane said.

"All right, but if they eat any of _my_ babies or use the carpet as the toilet, they're going to Mel."

Ivy and the Scarecrow shifted around the house restlessly until they heard Harley wish them good night. They both pointedly ignored the eerie cackling Bud and Lou added, as well as Harley's hasty and ineffective attempt to shut them up. After waiting a few more minutes to make sure Harley wasn't going to ask for a glass of milk or a nightlight, Crane and Ivy put their plan into action.

To replace the marker-darkened towel toga, Ivy did lend Crane her over-stretched shirt. He found it hung on him like the fat jeans of someone who'd discovered a miracle as-seen-on-TV diet. A man three times his weight would have been able to fit comfortably into the shirt.

"I didn't realize it was _that_ big," Ivy said, trying not to laugh at the draping garment.

"I could invite half of Arkham to a party inside this thing. Did you wash it or torture it on the rack?" Crane asked.

The clothing Ivy pulled from her closet wasn't the most flattering, but it was significantly nicer than the drooping work shirt Crane wore. She donned a long, tan trench coat and a hat with a wide brim that hid her eyes in shadow. She dropped a pair of gardening shears into one of the coat's deep pockets, for protective purposes. To finish the disguise, she pulled up the trench coat's collar to hide her distinctive, bright hair.

"I look like I stole my clothes from President Taft," Crane grumbled when he saw Ivy's better fitting coat and hat.

"Jonathan, we're going to the darkest back alleys in Gotham, not to the runways of Paris. If it bothers you that badly, go get an empty sack from the shed, cut a hole so your head pokes out, and wear that."

"If they were simple burlap, I would. However, I will not walk around with a bag that advertises me as '100 percent organic fertilizer' and that smells like cow waste."

"What exactly did you think organic fertilizer was?" Ivy asked.

"I'll wear the mini-dress, then."

"Good, let's go. I'm assuming you and Harley didn't walk here, so we'll be taking your vehicle. Where'd you park, anyway?"

Crane wasn't particularly eager to show Ivy his purple pickup. The truck wasn't exactly fuel-efficient, it did not run on bio-diesel, and it was routinely shown tearing up the landscape in commercials. Unless purple happened to be Isley's favorite color, the Scarecrow supposed he was probably in for a lecture.

"We parked about a mile down the road, behind some bushes," Crane said.

"You've got some enormous gas-guzzler, don't you?" Ivy asked.

"It isn't an SUV, it's a pickup truck. It may not be the best vehicle on the road, but I was in a hurry and I needed cargo space."

Poison Ivy sighed and said, "I'm going to make you plant saplings as punishment for releasing so much carbon into the atmosphere. Go get your mask before I decide to sic Al Gore on you. I stuck the hideous thing on the back of the couch."

The Scarecrow retrieved his mask. While he was doing that, Isley fetched two flashlights from a cupboard. She handed one to Crane and slipped the other into her coat pocket.

"Since neither of us can see in the dark, I figured it would be a bright idea to bring along some light. I wouldn't want to stumble across a rabid raccoon on the way to the truck. Sometimes the bandits try to eat my vegetables. The joke's on them when Mel turns the tables."

There was definitely something disquieting about a giant plant acting as pest control and snaring wayward raccoons. Crane had obviously not yet overcome a lifetime of preconceived ideas regarding plants. He doubted if even Ivy's best efforts to change his head could possibly make him alright with the idea of exclusively predatory plants.

The two wanted criminals slipped out of the house and into the night. The moon was bright enough to make the flashlights superfluous, at least for now. Clouds were gathering in the western sky and all the stars had been snuffed out in that region. Within hours, it would probably be pouring rain and the morning commute would be miserable for hundreds of thousands of Gothamites.

They made it to the truck without encountering any raccoons that were foaming at the mouth. Isley took one look at the pickup and frowned. Not only was it excessively large, it was also painted an ostentatious color and its windshield looked like a target from a firing range.

"The holes are the Joker's doing," Crane explained.

"Figures."

"Do you want to drive, or should I?" The Scarecrow asked.

"Are you going to hold it against me if I want to drive?"

"No, I let Harley drive."

Ivy shrugged her shoulders, "Normally, I'd insist on taking the wheel so you would learn women aren't clueless. I think that you already know that, though. I'll ride shotgun. Try not to crash into any trees or homeless people."

"I appreciate your confidence in my skills," Crane said.

Crane got the truck started while Ivy buckled in. He carefully avoided backing over any of the bushes that had camouflaged the pickup and pulled onto the poorly paved road. He doubted if the road, hardly more than a path someone had thrown asphalt on years ago, got much in the way of traffic.

"It's quiet out here," Crane observed, "I've been confined to Gotham so long I almost forgot there were places with crickets instead of cockroaches."

"I try to avoid downtown Gotham at all times. Honestly, I can't stand the air, the look of the soil, the pollution, any of it. It's a dead zone. Anything green died a long time ago," Ivy said.

"Perhaps Gotham was built on land touched by a _wendigo_. That might explain some things," Crane said.

"Is a _wendigo_ a monster or something?"

"An evil spirit of Native American lore, actually. Looking at it from a modern psychological perspective, the _wendigo_ represents Man's fear of his inner demons and his darkest nature."

"Is there anything that doesn't represent fear to you?" Ivy asked.

"Anything can be terrifying under the proper circumstances. I've seen men exhibit the oddest phobias, even without any intervention on my part. Take, for example, the very appropriate anthophobia: the fear of flowers."

"How is that even possible?"

"Anthophobia is nothing compared to some of the torture a person's mind can put itself through. Consider the daily mental agony of someone with heliophobia, the fear of the sun. Or amaxophobia, the fear of riding in cars. One of my personal favorite phobias is trypanophobia, because it's quite common and a great pleasure to exploit."

Ivy was suddenly uncomfortable with being in such close proximity to the Scarecrow. Over the past two days, he hadn't really done anything to alarm her. Sure, he'd gone on that spiel while he'd been watching the news, but that had been more irritating than scary. Now that she was alone with him, trapped in a confined space, he was starting to look more threatening. Maybe, even without the rest of his straw-stuffed costume, he'd be able to bully some weaker thug into helping them. If the thug had whatever trypanophobia was—Ivy surmised it was probably the fear of scarecrows—that would make things a piece of cake.

"For being the most complicated machine on the planet, an organic supercomputer that makes everything else look like an abacus, the brain does pick up some strange viruses. Every mind, no matter how sound, can be reduced to primitive terror," Crane said.

"What about _your_ brain, then? What scares the Scarecrow?" Ivy asked, hoping the question would force some of the air from his speech. She really didn't want to endure some crazed rant about fear for the next hour.

"I am the Master of Fear," Crane replied.

"And I'm the Queen of Green. We aren't playing battle of the nicknames. I want to know what makes the mighty Scarecrow shake in his straw."

"I'm not going to tell you. Do I look stupid?"

"In that shirt, yes you do."

Crane wanted no further banter. He stared straight out the windshield and refused to acknowledge Ivy's presence. That was exactly what she wanted. With the speechifying over for now, Ivy stretched out to relax.

Finding his way from Ivy's boondocks hideout to actual civilization wasn't all that difficult. It was simply a matter of locating the glowing radioactive beacon that was Gotham, and then taking whatever roads happened to run in that direction. The freeways were never empty, but at this hour they were at least passable. He made excellent time.

As the buildings became taller and more caked with pollution, the tension ebbed from the cab. Staying annoyed at each other was useless and both Crane and Ivy realized this. Without needing to make any verbal apology, they slipped into planning.

"Is there any venue you'd prefer to try first? I once had the pleasure of meeting a prostitute who kept a sawed-off shotgun in her Hello Kitty backpack, but I doubt if your feminist ideals would permit me to barter with hookers," Crane said.

"That," Ivy said with pride, "is a woman who knows what she's doing."

"She would have fit beautifully in _Sin City_. Not that I regularly peruse things of that nature," Crane said.

"As much as I like the idea of meeting your friends, I think I have a better idea. You might not like it, though. It involves dark, crowded places and men in cowboy hats."

Any plan that involved cowboy hats had to be a bad idea. Despite his misgivings, Crane didn't outright refuse to try whatever weirdness Isley had in mind. When they ended up running for their lives while a bunch of Texans shot at them, he would be able to tell her that she'd been foolish. Asides from the bullets and the possible death, he was looking forward to being able to mock Ivy.

What little of Gotham that could be labeled progressive or clean quickly transformed into the illegal but booming red-light district. There was a general consensus that if you couldn't find it sold in the back alleys of Gotham, it simply didn't exist. Everything from women dressed vaguely like Supergirl to pirated DVDs was on display at one corner or another.

"Was that woman dressing up like _me_?" Ivy asked in horror. She turned around in her seat and peered out the rear window. "I think she _was_!"

"Sick fetishists," Crane muttered.

"I don't know whether to be flattered or to go back there and let her have it," Ivy said.

"You'd probably catch a disease from her. Please, just tell me where I'm going before one of them jumps in the back and tries to scratch her way in."

Ivy settled down and played the good map. The hookers began to thin out, and the establishments started to look slightly more like legitimate places of business and less like facades for gambling rings and midget wrestling. Crane was directed to a bar lit up with miles of neon. He almost turned the truck around and drove home.

"The OK Corral? Really, it's called the OK Corral? How would you possibly know about a place like this? And what's it doing in the middle of Gotham?"

"Men do have _some_ uses, Jonathan."

Crane stared in horror.

"Not _those_ kinds of uses. I was thinking more along the lines of free labor and easy money. You can get a man's wallet with surprising ease, if you know what you're doing."

"I can rob a man, but I doubt if our styles are all that similar," the Scarecrow said.

"I use organic chemicals and a little charm; you use synthetic ones and a burlap sack. To each his own, I suppose," Ivy said.

Despite his misgivings about the Wild West themed bar and the neon-green flashing cacti that blinked in the windows, Crane parked the truck and turned it off. Ivy was making her way towards the entrance—complete with saloon-style swinging doors—before Crane could ask her to wait up.

The OK Corral, a name the Scarecrow instantly disliked, was hokey, ill-lit, and filled with men who wore belt buckles shaped like Texas. Sepia-toned reproduction photographs of famous outlaws and lawmen adorned the wall. Souvenirs from Tombstone and Deadwood occupied several display shelves. An antique Winchester rifle was hung above the bar, far out of the reach of any patron.

Crane took an unoccupied table as far from the urban cowboys as possible. He tried to hide among the shadows. The stupid glowing cactus that flashed on the wall behind him made that futile.

While the Scarecrow worked on his ninja skills, Ivy sidled up to a pair of men drinking at the bar. With one look, she could tell they were both too innocent to know anything important to her. She winked at them and moved on.

A large fellow who seemed content to down a pitcher all by his lonesome caught Ivy's attention. The tattoos—a flying skull, a snake, and a poorly rendered knife that looked more like a pencil than a blade—marked the man as on the fringes of society. The cigarette he was puffing away on despite the city-wide ban marked him as a rule-breaker.

"Mind if I have a seat?" Ivy asked.

The man looked up and squinted, trying to see Ivy's face under the wide brim of her hat. He apparently saw enough, because he broke into a grin that revealed roughly half his teeth had dropped out. Oh yes, this one had promise.

"Want some beer?" The man asked.

Ivy would have rather downed a half-gallon of Tabasco, but didn't let her smile falter. Instead, she pulled up a chair and sat down. The tattooed man looked as though he'd just been visited by an angelic vision.

"My friend and I are in need of some specialty supplies," Ivy said.

"Ah, you gotta friend? Where is he?"

Ivy jabbed a finger in Crane's direction. The Scarecrow was too busy scowling at a hideous carved wooden Indian to notice. The man took one look at Crane and returned to Ivy.

"He's _that_ kinda friend, huh? You know, metro-sexual or whatever they're calling themselves now a' days."

Ivy had to put a hasty hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. As though as sensible gay man would wear a shirt the washing machine tried to eat. As though Crane had any sense of fashion whatsoever.

"Yes, he's my buddy when my girlfriends can't take the night off. You don't have a problem with him, do you?"

Judging by the clouds that were beginning to form over the man's eyes, he wouldn't have had a problem if Ivy suggested he climb up on the bar and start belting out some old tunes by Journey. Ivy didn't even need to break out the plant pheromones to have this man eating out of her palm. If it wasn't so funny it would have been pathetic.

"No, he's fine with me. What do you need? Beer? I got that."

"Not quite, handsome. I was thinking more along the lines of things that go boom."

"Dynamite? I got a buddy who does construction."

"I was thinking of a little less boom and a little more trigger."

"Oh, guns, I gotcha. You and uh, Stick-man going to start a revolution?"

"Nothing like that. It's self-defense. You see, a bad, bad clown is bothering us and we're going to take care of him once and for all," Ivy said.

The man nodded, "Yeah, I know about clowns. All right, look, this is between you, me, and the stick. I know somebody who knows somebody who can get you any kind of gun you need. Even those crazy Russian ones with names I can't pronounce."

"Fantastic!" Ivy said. She leaned in and pecked the man quickly on the lips.

If he had been love-struck before, he was now ground down into paste. Wearing an empty grin not unlike someone who'd fallen under the Hatter's mind control, the smoker rose from his seat at Ivy's command. She waved at Crane to get his attention, but he was now engaged in a staring contest with the wooden Indian.

"Hey, Ennis, we're leaving," Ivy called.

Crane forgot all about the hideously stereotypical wooden chief and rose to follow Ivy. He tried to ignore the snickers and low-handed jokes the patrons made as he passed. It was like high-school all over again, but with more Jake Gyllenhaal.

Out in the parking lot, the Scarecrow looked at the ugly mug Ivy had brought with her. The man reeked of nicotine, his tattoos belonged in a museum of ungodly mistakes, and he looked high or something.

"What are you doing with that _thing_?" Crane asked.

"He's not a thing, he's our ticket to some guns. He's going to lead us to this friend's friend, aren't you?" Ivy purred.

The man nodded eagerly. Crane tried to hide his repulsion. He was not going to end up as one of Ivy's zombies.

"Put him in the back, then. He's not infecting my space with his stench."

Doing as Crane wanted, Ivy led her willing captive to the truck and he stepped into the bed. Ivy shut the tailgate and returned to the cab.

"My name is not now, nor will it ever be 'Ennis'. Am I clear on that?" Crane asked.

"Of course. It wasn't even my idea. Our new friend back there called you metro-sexual and I was playing along," Ivy said.

"When we're done with him and I get my hands on some fear toxin, he's becoming a test subject."

Ivy shrugged her shoulders. "Fine by me."

Crane fiddled with the wires until the truck growled back to life. Once that was taken care of, he buckled his seat belt and happily backed out of the pseudo-saloon.

"Ask the Neanderthal where this 'friend' of his is."

Isley talked to her pet through the glass and finally got a coherent answer from him. She told the directions to Crane, and he stepped on it.

No one took notice of the crouched black shape that watched them from a nearby rooftop.

* * *

William Howard Taft was the fattest President. He got stuck in the White House bathtub.

A _wendigo_ is a demon or spirit of Algonquian Indian myth. It is said to have the power to turn men into cannibals. In the Stephen King novel _Pet Semetary_, the ground a _wendigo_ touched became cursed.

Trypanophobia is the fear of needles and injections. My sister, as well as an estimated five percent of US adults, has this phobia. If you want to have a good time, mention the flu shot to her.

In _Sin City_, a ruthless group of hookers ran a section of the city known as Old Town.

The Winchester rifle was known as "the gun that won the West".

Ennis Del Mar was Heath Ledger's character in _Brokeback Mountain_. Jake Gyllenhaal played his lover, Jack.


	6. Animal, Vegetable, Zombie

Thanks for reviewing!

Please pardon the lateness. I got started on another fic, as many of you probably know, and this had to be placed on the back burner for a while. Hopefully, I'll be able to update them both at an acceptable pace. I'm sorry in advance, because I'll probably end up being negligent to somebody. Patience, please, please, please.

* * *

Not surprisingly, the directions Ivy's new friend had given led them back into the darkest, dingiest, most lawless patch of Gotham. Nobody, it seemed, had the decency to deal arms out of a nice middle-class home. No, they all had to do their dirty dealing in the slums.

After driving the wrong way down one-way streets, slamming on the brakes numerous times to let scantily-clad women, stray cats, and rats roughly the size of possums cross the street, and being flipped off by a man who gave both Crane and Ivy the creeps, they finally managed to reach their destination. As expected, it was a rundown, non-descript structure. In a better city than Gotham, it would have been demolished years ago. Since the city's budget was often spent as soon as it was approved, there was very little that could be done for obsolete and sometimes dangerous old buildings. They basically sat around until time and nature took care of them, an arsonist burned them down, or a rogue blew them up while attempting to kill Batman.

"I don't like the look of this place," Crane said.

"What's not to like? The broken windows, the graffiti, the man in the black hoodie loitering around outside?" Ivy replied sarcastically.

"Let's send in the mushroom. If he gets blown full of holes, we'll be wiser," Crane said.

"They're not great with complex instructions. I mean, I could get him to walk across the street and ring the doorbell, but he'd look like a robot while doing it."

"Zombies aren't good for much."

"He got us here, didn't he?" Ivy retorted.

"Damn, I suppose that does make him more useful than my latest bunch of goons. All right. Let's go before I realize just how stupid this is."

Hoping nobody either stole the already stolen pickup or denuded it for spare parts, Crane shut off the engine. Ivy had the decency to wait for him as he gathered up his mask and his courage. He stuffed the mask up one draping sleeve and got out of the truck.

"Are we bringing the potato? He's the one they know, after all," the Scarecrow said.

"Of course."

Ivy ordered the man from the back of the truck. Her zombie was quite a bit more limber than the traditional undead--probably because he wasn't dead, just drugged--and he climbed out of the truck easily. Once he was on the cracked pavement, his gait became quite a bit stiffer. He wasn't exactly shuffling like Frankenstein, but he did look like he had one bastard of a case of arthritis.

"Rhubarb, do you know the name of the man guarding the door?" Crane asked.

Ivy swatted him, "Stop calling him a vegetable and a zombie. I know you don't like him because he called you a metro-sexual, but let it go."

"I can nurse a grudge with the best of them," Crane replied.

"That's not something to be proud of."

Ivy asked the same question Crane had and was rewarded with an answer. The Scarecrow glared at the stiff-jointed man. Soon enough, soon enough, he'd get his.

"The guard's name is Floyd."

"I knew a man named Floyd once. I believe he was set on fire by Firefly and then fell off a bridge," Crane said.

"While he was on fire?"

"Absolutely."

"That's unfortunate."

"I wouldn't want to go out that way."

"Me neither. But I think we're forgetting what we came here for. Unless, of course, you're stalling on purpose. If you're too _afraid_ I'll go in myself," Ivy said.

That settled it. He was going. Grabbing hold of the walking parsley's shirt, Crane marched directly toward the door. Floyd saw them coming and quickly disappeared into the building. He was either a dreadful doorman, or he was going to get a shotgun.

Still dragging along the zombie, Crane mounted the five steps and raised his fist to knock on the door. Before he could, the door swung open. Floyd had not gone to get a shotgun after all. He'd gone to get an AK-47.

"Whatcha want?" Floyd demanded.

The Scarecrow did the only sensible thing he could think of. He grabbed Ivy's pet and used the man as a shield. Since Crane was quite a bit thinner, he easily disappeared behind the protective body. Floyd couldn't hit Crane unless he blew his friend to pieces.

Floyd's demeanor changed entirely. He lowered the assault rifle and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"Hey, man, how you been? How come you keep missin' poker night? Nobody makes any money unless you're there to lose it all!"

After waiting for a response and not getting one, Floyd raised his weapon again. "What's wrong with him? Why ain't he talkin' and why's he got some scrawny guy like you runnin' 'round with him?"

Before Crane could get his head blown off, Ivy stepped in. She pushed back her hat far enough for Floyd to get a clear look at her face. Floyd saw her and his lower jaw nearly fell off.

"Damn! You're Poison Ivy, yeah? Oh man, I wish my girlfriend was as hot as you."

"Close your eyes for a second, Floyd. I've got a surprise for you," Ivy purred. Floyd looked like he'd just found Helen of Troy sitting naked on his bed.

The Scarecrow pointedly looked elsewhere while Ivy gave Floyd the kiss of death...or enslavement. Once Floyd was as catatonic as his buddy, Ivy led them into the building. Crane relieved Floyd of his weapon.

"Is there anyone else in here?" Ivy asked.

"Mario and Damien went for snacks," Floyd said in a flat voice.

"All right. Lock the door and if they come back, tell them the police are in the area and are looking for them. Don't let them in, though," Ivy instructed.

"Cover my ass." Floyd said.

"Exactly."

Leaving Floyd and the original informant to stand sentinel and wait for Mario and Damien to return, Ivy and Crane set out to explore the building. The Scarecrow found the stairs and decided to take the upper floor while Ivy checked around the current level.

The second floor looked like a cross between a college dorm from the late 1960's and a flophouse. Beanbag chairs were the predominant furniture, the floor was covered in a wide assortment of snack wrappers and empty bags, and in one room a lava lamp in which globs of lemon-yellow wax floated was the only source of light. Something that looked suspiciously like a pound or two of marijuana was occupying the table next to the lava lamp.

Crane entered the last room on the floor and looked around. There was a bare mattress, a poster of some rapper who had gilded his teeth, a CD player, and a six foot tall bat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Wait a second.

Ivy was finding a lot of…plant material…but not much in the way of weaponry. Unless all this marijuana worked like the producers of _Reefer Madness_ suggested, there wasn't anything all that dangerous except for Floyd's confiscated AK-47. It was possible that Mario and Damien, no doubt out satisfying one severe case of the munchies, had stashed a cache of guns somewhere in the house. Maybe Floyd would know; he hadn't pulled the assault rifle out of thin air, obviously.

"Floyd, do you and your friends keep your guns-"

Before Ivy could finish her sentence, a thud loud enough to rattle plaster dust from the ceiling shook the decaying building. There was a brief yelp, half of pain and half of surprise, and then silence. Something had obviously happened to Crane. Maybe these stoners had been clever or lucid enough to rig a booby-trap. If that was the case, as long as the Scarecrow wasn't flattened or gushing blood from a major artery, Ivy was going to torment him for being outsmarted by a gang of potheads.

"Both of you, go see what that was," Ivy ordered.

Her two enamored henchmen happily went to investigate. They were nearly to the top of the stairs when Batman, dragging a very unhappy Jonathan Crane, emerged. Crane was cursing and twisting like a cat in Batman's grasp but was having no success at escape.

"Help me you bumbling oxen!" the Scarecrow demanded.

Batman noticed the two men standing at the foot of the stairs and took a defensive stance. Neither man appeared to be armed, and they looked a little spaced out. That wasn't surprising, considering what the Dark Knight had found stashed in almost every room.

"I'm not interested in either of you right now. Keep back," Batman ordered.

The witless duo did just that. They stayed put, watching with blank expressions. Ivy had sent them to scope out the situation, not to interfere.

Poison Ivy risked a quick peek up the stairs. She saw her men standing like a pair of broccoli stalks. Maybe it was time to rework the command.

"Go help Crane," she said.

That got them moving. Batman was forced to let go of the wriggling Scarecrow so he could deal with the pair of thugs. Crane wasted no time slipping past Batman and descending the stairs three at a time.

Ivy was waiting at the bottom step. The Scarecrow ran past her without an explanation. She wasn't a dense woman, and interpreted Crane's flight as a sign of serious trouble. She forgot about Floyd and her friend from the bar. They'd come to their senses in a few hours, quicker if an antidote to her hypnotic poison was administered.

"Is it Batman?" Ivy asked once she rejoined the Scarecrow outside the building.

"No, it's the Flash! Yes, it was Batman. It's _always_ Batman. Let's go while the zombie and the kale distract him."

"You're going to run out of vegetables eventually," Ivy said as they headed for the truck.

Crane reached for the door handle, only to have a finely placed batarang thwart him. He yanked back his hand and frowned. Batman had dealt with the flunkies in record time. He was now no doubt perched on the roof like a gargoyle, waiting for the opportune moment to swoop down.

Poison Ivy managed to get her door open without any projectiles coming menacingly close to her fingers. She ducked down below the level of the window and waited for Crane. She would give him a minute or two, and if he hadn't managed to reclaim the driver's seat, she was going to usurp it. She was fonder of the Scarecrow than she was of almost every other bipedal, tool-using mammal, but she didn't like him enough to get hauled back to Arkham with him. In the end, if it came down to it, it was every woman for herself.

The Scarecrow made a feint for the handle and another bat-shaped weapon nearly hit him. This one stuck in the door. Crane almost growled in frustration. Safety was _right there_ and he couldn't get to it.

"Isley, open the door for me. The bat bastard won't let me get near enough," Crane said.

Ivy, keeping low and moving slowly, inched her way towards the driver's door. She wasn't going to get clocked in the head with a batarang for Crane, either. Head trauma was reserved strictly for endangered species of flora.

Just as her fingers brushed the handle, something massive landed on the roof of the truck, caving it in. Ivy pulled away and threw her arms over her head for protection. The Scarecrow scooted backwards, stumbled over the curb, and fell on his ass.

Batman, it seemed, had found his ideal moment.

"You murdered my truck!" the Scarecrow exclaimed. The pickup that had chauffeured the Joker and survived had been rendered unusable by the Bat. With the roof practically sitting in the passenger's seat and the windshield nothing but a giant crack, there was no way the truck was driving anywhere without major repairs.

"What do you think you're doing out here, Crane? What are you and Quinn up to?" Batman asked from atop the truck.

"Harley and I aren't planning anything! Now get off my truck and leave me in peace. This doesn't concern you and I'm sure there's a cat you could be rescuing from a tree somewhere in this city," Crane said.

"Whatever you're planning does concern me. Now talk."

"It does not. Does. Not. I'm not planning to attack the city, to attack you—despite what you did to my truck—or to attack any of your friends or loved ones. Go find that tabby and stop torturing me."

Crane was incredibly lively, given that the last time Batman had seen him, he'd barely been able to stand. Considering how it still felt like a large fault line was running down the middle of his skull, Bruce wasn't sure how Crane had recovered so quickly. Even if he'd gone to a back-alley doctor and had gotten patched up, the scheming should have been knocked out of him for at least a week.

"You aren't just out enjoying a drive with Quinn. I'm not going to believe that."

"Quinn! Why do you keep mentioning Harley? I haven't got Harley with me! She's not here, you dolt. She's home with her hyenas," Crane said.

"Then who's in the truck?"

"Why don't you figure it out? Aren't you supposed to be the world's greatest detective?" the Scarecrow said.

Of course this couldn't go easily. Batman wanted to arrest Crane and Quinn, drop them off at Arkham, and then get some sleep. He needed to know what the Scarecrow was doing, driving around in the middle of the night with a mysterious person before he could get rid of them, though.

"You're not the Riddler and I'm not going to play guessing games with you."

Batman leapt from the roof to the sidewalk. The Scarecrow glared at the Bat and wished desperately he wasn't unarmed. If he had his fear toxin…

With some effort, Batman managed to pull the driver's door open. When he'd landed on the roof with all the force of a falling boulder, he'd warped the doorframe. Now the damned door wouldn't open without a painful grind of metal on metal. That noise didn't do much for his headache, except make it worse.

Just as the door was opened, the enigmatic passenger leapt out like a cat and fastened onto Batman. He didn't even have time to raise his arms in defense. The attacker went for his face, and Batman was sure he was going to get his nose bitten off.

Instead of pulling a Hannibal Lecter, the attacker kissed him. Bruce prayed to God it was a woman. If he discovered he'd just been lip-locking with the Mad Hatter or someone like that, he was never going to emotionally recover.

"Come on, Bats, where's the passion?"

That was definitely a woman's voice. Hallelujah.

Snapping out of it, Batman pushed the woman off. She backed away, smirking. Once there was a few feet between them, she swept off her broad hat, letting an explosion of bright orange hair light the night.

Ivy. Maybe he'd been relieved too quickly.

A sudden blurring of his vision and a total weakness in his muscles confirmed that he'd been celebrating too soon. Bruce stumbled and Crane took the opportunity to kick him in the knee. The hero went down and immediately began to fumble with his utility belt. Like a good Boy Scout, Batman was always prepared. He carried an antidote to any number of common poisons oft-employed by his adversaries, just in case.

"I'm afraid not," the Scarecrow said. He plucked the antidote from Batman's hand.

This had to be a new low. Twice in three days, Batman had been successfully beaten down. First by the Joker and his toaster, and now by Crane and Ivy. Judging by the tightness in his throat that was beginning to restrict his breathing, if he didn't get that antidote in the next few minutes, it would be the last time anyone had to worry about being foiled by the Batman.

"Will he die without this?" Crane asked Ivy, shaking the tiny vial he held.

"Probably. It won't be a particularly pretty death, though, so if you don't want to stick around and take notes, we should leave," she responded.

"It'll be painful?"

"I'd say so."

Batman was beginning to gasp for air. He sounded like an asthmatic suffering an attack. Crane found absolutely no pleasure in watching his foe suffocate, and that bothered him. He wanted to enjoy the Bat's death, and for some reason he was unable.

Just as his vision was going dark, Bruce felt Crane grasp his hand. As though disgusted by the touch, the Scarecrow pulled away with a grimace on his face. He'd left something behind in Batman's hand, though.

"You saved my life. Though it makes me physically ill to do it, I'm returning the favor."

Ivy stared incredulously at the Knight and the Scarecrow. "Are you sure, Crane? We finally got him and-"

"Don't make me reconsider it, Isley! I hate myself enough as it is!"

Disgusted at his display of mercy, Crane balled his hands into fists. He wanted to see the Bat dead, damn it! He wanted it almost as badly as he wanted the Joker dead. The opportunity had presented itself, had practically thrown itself on the ground at his feet, and he hadn't taken it. Was the Scarecrow going soft?

"Come on. We'll steal a car, or another truck if you want. Let's just get out of here before he gets his strength back," Ivy said.

With Ivy guiding him, Crane reluctantly started down the sidewalk. He took one look back at Batman, who was struggling to sit up.

"Never again, do you hear me, Bats? Leave us to our business. We only intend to kill one person, and we're doing you a great service by doing so. Interfere and I will personally kill you after I've driven you insane with terror," the Scarecrow said.

With that, Poison Ivy and the Scarecrow departed. Batman watched them go, too weak to even think about following. He had managed to gain some intriguing information, but the cost had almost been his life. For tonight, at least, he was finished.

After they'd put several blocks between them and the Bat, Ivy dared to look over at Crane. He was still furious. She cautiously laid a hand on his shoulder. He brushed it off.

"Jonathan-"

"I will never want to talk about that, Isley. Never."

"No, it's nothing to do with Batman," she said.

"What is it, then?"

"It's starting to rain."

* * *

_Reefer Madness_ was a film released in 1936 in which kids smoked pot and then went bonkers.


	7. Pimpin' Ain't Easy

Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? As I predicted, I did end up neglecting a fic, and it was this one. I am deeply ashamed and criminal charges should be filed… At least _Plausibility_ will be wrapping up soon, so this poor, poor creature can have more attention. For those who waited so patiently, and then waited with increasing despair or anger, I cannot apologize enough.

Thanks for the reviews, especially the reviews that prodded me to get this poor bastard written.

* * *

The Joker was sleeping peacefully, thanks to continued heavy doses of painkillers. He was having a wonderful dream in which a certain scarecrow and a certain bat were both trussed up in the middle of a cornfield and he, the wonderfully clever clown, was driving a combine straight for them. Now, while harvesters weren't his vehicle of choice, even in his dreams he wasn't going to turn down the opportunity to crush his enemies with fifteen tons of threshing fury.

Just before the whirling blades of the combine could reach the Bat, the Joker was wrenched from sleep. Instead of a field covered in gore and tattered black scraps of cape, the clown found himself in the Arkham infirmary. Groggy and disappointed, the Joker scanned the room for whatever had awoken him.

It didn't take him long to find the source of his woes. A guard, half-carried by two of his comrades, was sobbing vigorously. It took a lot to make an Arkham guard cry; the Joker knew from past experiments.

"I don't care what you caught the Ventriloquist doing with Socko! I'm trying to get my beauty sleep here. For once in my life, I actually need it. I'm a mess and you will be too if-"

As the three men came closer, the Joker noticed an unhealthy amount of blood staining the crying guard's uniform. Unless seeing the disgusting acts of the Ventriloquist and his hand puppet had made the guard's eyes bleed, something more violent had happened to him. The Joker stopped his complaining and laid back to listen.

The sobbing alerted a doctor, who promptly forgot about his coffee and went to investigate. With the doctor's instruction, the guards steered their bleeding friend to a bed. They probably should have chosen a location farther from the Joker but hadn't thought of that at the time.

"What happened to him?" the doctor asked.

"Zsasz spooned him," a guard answered.

The Joker burst into maniacal laughter. The next time the Joker saw Victor—always assuming the psychotic degenerate wasn't holding a knife—he was going to shake his hand.

"Jesus Christ, don't put it like that! You make it sound like he molested me or something. He _stabbed_ me with a spoon. He didn't spoon me," the bloody guard said.

Oh. Damn, that wasn't quite as funny. Wait. How did you stab someone with a spoon? The Joker had tried several times on several different people; he'd always gotten bored and moved on to the fork.

"Sorry, Bill."

Bill didn't answer because he was crying again.

"You two can back up now. I need to see where he was stabbed and how badly he's bleeding," the doctor said.

"He got stabbed straight through the hand. I think the spoon's still in there."

"It was nasty," the other guard added.

With a great deal of coaxing, the doctor eventually got Bill to extend his arm and reveal the damage. The Joker was only too happy to provide commentary as the doctor worked.

"That's going to need stitches. I hope he didn't sever any tendons; you might never again be able to flip someone off if he did," the doctor said.

Bill sniffled at the joke. He did enjoy flipping people the bird, and if his middle finger could no longer extend, his quality of life would suffer. He prayed the tendons were intact.

"Never be able to flip someone off? Your life is next to worthless, sir! If I was you, I'd hobble back to Zsasz and let him finish the job. In my humble opinion, that would be best for everyone," the Joker said.

"Shut it, clown. I'll knock those teeth right back out of your head," one of the guard's comrades said.

The Joker was not intimidated by anyone's threats, so he continued to add outrageous comments. The doctor shifted uncomfortably when the comments involved him—he'd been working at Arkham long enough to know what the patients were capable of—and the two unhurt guards glared to no avail. Poor spooned Bill continued to whimper as the doctor gently handled his hand.

"The absolute best thing for you would be a trip to Gotham General. The atmosphere there will be much more positive. There will also be a distinct lack of clowns," the doctor said.

"Thank God! Do you think this will be covered by my health insurance?" Bill asked.

"Oh yes. There's a clause in all Arkham staff's coverage for inmate-related injuries. Believe me, I wouldn't be working here otherwise."

While the doctor went off to call for an ambulance, the Joker began to get angry. Something wasn't adding up. Bloody Bill had a little, bitty booboo and he was getting a free ambulance ride to a top of the line medical facility. The Joker had had half his teeth knocked out, his brains scrambled, and his body beaten all colors of the rainbow and he was forced to endure the pitiful Arkham infirmary! Where was the justice? Somebody was going to die for this.

Bristling at the discrimination he'd just seen, the Joker lay back down and glared up at the ceiling. The nerve of these doctors, treating the Clown Prince of Crime like some peon who'd crawled in off the streets. He had to heal in record time so he could cause great and irreversible bodily harm to all those who had wronged him.

* * *

Also fuming about the great unfairness of it all, Jonathan Crane was not a pleasant man to be around. The rain, hardly more than a drizzle but unseasonably cold, wasn't improving him any, either. Ivy at least had her wide-brimmed hat and trench coat to keep out the water. The Scarecrow was exposed to the elements.

"Jonathan, we will find another car," Ivy said.

"That's not the point! I loved my pickup truck and the Bat took it from me. Everything I enjoy, he destroys! And then I can't even kill him for it! I'm a failure as a villain," the Scarecrow shouted.

"You know, it was a horrible plague on the environment. A truck like that couldn't get more than eighteen miles per-"

"I don't care! It was mine and I don't care how many polar bears it killed."

"That's idiotic," Ivy said.

"You're idiotic."

"If you don't apologize for that, I'll kiss you unconscious and leave you here in the rain."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Jonathan howled and swung an abrupt left down a narrow alleyway. The alley was as black as the Dark Knight's cape and there was no telling who or what lurked within it. Before Ivy could slap some sense into the Scarecrow, he had vanished into the gloom.

"Crane, if you're mugged, don't expect me to come save you," Ivy said.

"That's fine because I don't need your help, Paper Bag Princess," Crane replied.

"The Paper Bag Princess would realize she's better off without you, anyway! You can't even wash dishes!" Ivy shouted.

"Give Harley my regards. I'm through baby-sitting clowns and tiptoeing around temperamental, sexist weeds."

Ivy gasped and drew herself up like an angry puffer fish. How _dare_ he insult her! She was not about to let Crane get away with calling her such a derogatory name. Ignoring the foreboding appearance of the alley, Poison Ivy marched in without hesitation.

Twenty feet in, the Scarecrow remembered a key fact about himself: he could not see in the dark. With no moon or streetlights to provide illumination, Crane was forced to proceed like a blind man, with his hands out in front of him and his footsteps tentative and unsure. He successfully navigated the alley in this manner until he tripped over a large obstruction and landed on his face.

Sprawled out on the ground and angrier than ever, Crane kicked backwards, hoping to strike whatever he had tripped over. He was surprised when his foot met something that grunted and then cursed at him. Apparently what had tripped him was not a garbage can or anything so innocuous: it was a hobo who didn't appreciate being woken up from a booze-fueled nap.

Ivy heard the sounds of a scuffle coming from farther down the alley. Papers rustled, empty bottles and cans rolled and two men panted and swore as they blindly struck out at each other. To see just who Crane had picked a fight with, Ivy pulled the flashlight from the trench coat's pocket and clicked it on. The beam of light illuminated the alley and revealed Crane was rolling around with a great, hairy, grunting creature that looked like the missing link in human evolution.

"I don't have time for this! Ivy, get him off me!" Crane demanded as the hobo tried to punch him in the face.

"Absolutely not. I'm going to stand here and enjoy the spectacle. You're a big boy, aren't you? Deal with it," the botanist replied.

The hobo was a much bigger boy than Crane—they were similar in height, but the hobo's heaps of foul clothing probably weighed more than the Scarecrow—and it didn't take the hobo long to pin Crane down. Trapped under a mound of unwashed skin, hair, and clothes, all Crane could do was wiggle ineffectively. He had no way to avoid the blows that soon attempted to demolish his face.

Ivy watched the excessive violence for a minute before deciding Crane had been punished enough for his angry words. She casually strolled up to the hobo, who was intent on completely rearranging the position of all Crane's facial features, and tapped the oaf on the shoulder. The hobo looked up with bloodshot eyes and noticed an attractive woman standing in front of him. He quickly forgot about the scrawny man he'd pinned and ogled Ivy.

"He's not really worth your time," Ivy said.

"He kicked me," the hobo retorted.

"I don't think he meant it. Besides, how much damage could someone like him do to a big, strong man like you?" Ivy asked, pouring on the charm like cheap perfume. The hobo lapped it up.

The hobo got off of Crane and grinned at Ivy. He had exactly ten teeth, and none of them were in phenomenal shape. Ivy found it hard not to grimace in disgust.

"What's a nice girl like you doing with a nerd like him?" the hobo asked.

"Oh, he needs someone to protect him," Ivy replied.

"How about you let a man like me take care of a pretty little baby like you?"

Crane knew the hobo was soon to be compost. Ivy hated male chauvinism and demeaning nicknames as much as she hated the Joker and raging forest fires. At least it would be entertaining to watch.

While Ivy beat the sexism out of the filthy hobo, Crane crawled out of the way. His nose was bleeding, and he wiped it with his sleeve as Poison Ivy proved she was several hundred times better at ass-kicking than he was. Crane almost felt ashamed that a woman was so much better at fighting than he was, then he supposed Ivy would thrash him for such a thought and quickly banished it.

In under a minute the hobo was unconscious and Ivy was satisfied. She'd cracked him over the head with her flashlight, and the light was now flickering and in danger of going out. Before the flashlight could die entirely, Ivy fixed Crane in its feeble beam. He was a sorry sight and Ivy was sure he would behave properly the rest of the night.

"Is your nose broken?" Ivy asked.

"No, just swollen. And painful," Crane replied.

Ivy helped Crane off the ground. He was steady enough on his feet—Ivy hoped that meant his brain hadn't been knocked about too badly—but his face and shirt were bloodied. That would be a problem if they had to enter any legitimate establishments. Even the seediest bars in Gotham took issue with patrons who looked like they had been participating in their own version of _Fight Club_.

"Let's find a car and go home. We aren't going to get anywhere tonight, not with you looking like that," Ivy said.

Crane wiped more blood from under his nose. The stream was beginning to dry up, but he'd bled enough to dye everything from his nose to the point of his chin bright red, to stain his shirt, and to make him feel like he'd never get the taste of tangy copper out of his mouth. He spat and still tasted blood. He spat once more and got the same result.

After Crane was done expelling blood and saliva, he and Ivy decided to make tracks. They weren't going to find any drivable vehicles in the alley, and the hobo probably wasn't going to be happy when he woke up to a staggering headache. They emerged back onto the street just as Ivy's flashlight blinked out.

"It's gone on to join my toaster," Crane said. "And my truck."

"They served us well," Ivy said.

"Do you find it odd two notorious criminals are eulogizing inanimate objects?"

"Somewhat."

"Good, just so I'm not alone in my opinion."

Funeral services for the flashlight were officially over and the search for a replacement vehicle could begin. Ivy wanted a car that didn't belch as much pollution into the atmosphere as a burning Kuwaiti oil field, but finding something that ran and had four inflated tires would be about the best she could expect in this neighborhood. Crane's sole stipulation was that the car was dry. The rain hadn't picked up in intensity, but it was freezing.

The street offered slim pickings. One car had been totally stripped down so that not even the seatbelts or the steering wheel remained. The second car was nothing but the skeletal frame of a burned out Chevrolet. The third car, parked outside a boarded-up business that now offered illegal wares, belonged to a pimp who could not have dressed more obnoxiously if he tried. Said pimp was strolling out of the destitute building, his gold-plated cane in one hand and a suspicious looking bag in the other.

The pimp and the villains stared at each other for a moment. Judging by the nuclear fireballs that were exploding in Ivy's eyes, she had a bone to pick (or break) with the fur-wearing exploiter of women. Even under the trench coat and hat, the pimp recognized Poison Ivy. He feared her more than he feared the cops, prison, or getting shanked.

"Nice ride. How'd you pay for it?" Ivy asked.

"Uh," the pimp muttered.

"I didn't know they'd sell a vehicle to a man paying with uh."

"Look, I don't want no trouble, I just came to pick somethin' up and—"

"Ivy, I believe the proper thing to do would be to confiscate his ill-gotten Cadillac. How does that sound?" Crane asked.

"I think that's a great idea. Hand over the keys before I take that cane and shove it so far down your throat you'll need a proctologist to extract it," Ivy demanded.

The hustler needed no further encouragement. He pulled the keys from the pocket of his fur-lined coat and chucked them at Ivy. Then he bolted down the sidewalk, running incredibly fast for a man wearing that much faux gold jewelry.

Ivy fetched the keys and frowned at the hideous and ridiculous fobs the pimp had attached to the key-ring. There was a silhouette of a nude woman like those seen on big rig mud-flaps, a green lucky rabbit's foot, a marijuana leaf, and a rubber dollar sign. If not for the rain and the cold, Ivy would have taken the time to yank off each and every last fob.

Crane approached the car and examined it. From what he could see in the limited light, the owner of the Cadillac had done everything in his power to make the car the distillation of every pimping vehicle from every rap music video and ghetto film ever produced. The car was immaculately clean, its white paint looked freshly waxed and its spinning rims were polished. Inside, it no doubt had a sound system capable of shattering windows and rattling teeth, as well as hydraulics powerful enough to make the car bounce like a kangaroo.

"I can't believe we're riding in _this_," Ivy said.

"It could theoretically be worse. We could be reduced to driving the Pu… the truck from _Kill Bill_." Crane wondered if running away as the pimp had done would be enough to save him.

"If it was good enough for Uma Thurman, I wouldn't be entirely opposed."

That had not been the answer Crane was expecting, but he was relieved beyond words not to be destroyed by Ivy's fists of fury. He decided he'd install even more thought police to keep derogatory terms for female anatomy from ever leaving his lips. Ivy being a Tarantino fan wouldn't save his hide every time he said something stupid.

"Come on, Crane, I've had more than enough of Gotham's air, culture, and wildlife for one night. We can plan out tomorrow's activities on the way home."

Without needing to be asked, Crane hopped in the passenger's seat. He was not up to driving, and he would do anything in his power to keep Ivy happy. Besides, he, for some strange reason he could not articulate, just wanted to watch Ivy behind the wheel. She had, in the course of a single night, defeated Batman with a toxic kiss, defeated an angry drunken hobo with a flashlight, and proven her taste in films was the polar opposite of what Crane had expected. He had to admit that she was growing on him, and not in the horrifying, parasitic strangler-fig way he'd been worried about.

The big, powerful engine purred to life and Crane fastened his seatbelt. Ivy looked out of place among the furry dice hanging from the rear view mirror and the leopard-print seat covers, but she knew how to handle the ostentatious pimp-mobile. With ease, she swung the Cadillac onto the street. Now they were cruising in style.

"Harley's going to like this car," Crane said.

"She can have it, paint it purple and green, and ram it into the Batmobile for all I care. After it gets us home, I never want to drive it again. I can just imagine what went on in the back seat," Ivy replied.

Crane looked into the back seat, as though he expected to find a naked hooker sitting there. It was empty, though what a black light might have revealed was better left unimagined.

"At least it's a car. What are we going to do about our tragic lack of guns, grenades, bombs, and general Joker-killing devices?" Crane asked.

"We'll figure something out. We're a pair of chemistry geniuses, aren't we? If we can't beat that clown, we should both hand in out beakers."

"If we can't beat that clown, he'll probably kill us, instead."

Ivy sighed. "Jonathan, why are you such a pessimist?"

"I lived with the Joker for two weeks. You either emerge from that situation depressed, or you emerge in a body bag."

"I'll find something to cheer you up," Ivy said.

Crane didn't dare ask what that meant. An underused, oft-ignored part of his mind dared to hope, though.

* * *

_The Paper Bag Princess_ is a very feminist-friendly fairy tale where the princess saves the prince from the dragon.

In the film _Kill Bill Vol. 1, _a truck bearing the words "Pussy Wagon" is stolen by the Bride after she kills the truck's owner. I personally don't think Ivy would mind _Kill Bill_ because of its ass-kicking female protagonist, plus its ass-kicking female antagonists.

Certain human body fluids fluoresce under a black light.


	8. The Stupidest TeaParty I Ever Was At

Good news, everyone! My other fic, _Plausibility_, which had been the vampire of my time, is now done! At long last! Hooray! So, for all you who enjoy this fic, I will now have much more energy to devote on it. Expect the updates to speed the hell up. And thanks for your patience.

Thanks for the reviews, of course, too!

* * *

The gleaming Cadillac was perhaps the most luxurious car Crane had ever ridden in. Of course, the Batmobile was the terrestrial equivalent of a space shuttle, with its gadgets, and its blinking buttons and its incredible speed, but none of the Scarecrow's trips in the Batmobile had been pleasant. Or voluntary. It was hard to appreciate the perks of a super-car when you were unconscious, hog-tied, furious beyond comprehension, or suffering from exposure to your own fear toxin.

"Even if you hate this car, it does have one invaluable feature," Crane said.

"What's that?" Ivy asked.

"It won't be reported stolen. That would require a police investigation, and I doubt a pimp wants the police anywhere near him. Who knows what, asides from prostitution, he's involved in."

"Drugs, gambling, weapons trafficking...that last one would actually be beneficial."

Crane and Ivy both made mental notes to scour the car for hidden guns. A search would have to wait for dawn and for the rain to stop, and then Ivy and Crane intended to tear the car apart like a pair of forensic detectives on the hunt for trace evidence. Exactly what they'd tell Harley when she saw the Caddy, neither of them had any idea. They'd cross that bridge when it came snooping and demanding answers.

The ride back home was uneventful and Crane dared to say it was relaxing. The Cadillac's powerful engine propelled the car through the night and the rain without problem. Its windshield wipers made a rhythmic beat as they slapped rain from the Crane's view. The mechanical metronome lulled him into a relaxed state, and he reclined his seat a few notches.

"Jonathan, we're home."

Crane jerked and blinked his eyes. He'd nodded off, lulled to sleep by the gentle thump of the windshield wipers.

"Oh, good," he said.

"There's a problem," Ivy said.

"Not good. What is it?"

"All the lights are on in the house. _All_ of them."

Crane noticed that the house was lit up like the Vegas strip. Every window was aglow and that had certainly not been the way they'd left the house. Ivy would chew off her own foot before she'd waste so much electricity.

"Harley," Crane said.

"Unless the hyenas learned how to use a light switch."

"What are we going to tell her? She can't know we're trying to rid the world of that clown. What's our excuse for disappearing in the middle of the night and coming back in this car?"

Ivy paused for a second. "I've got an idea. I don't know how much you'll like it, but it will stop her from asking questions."

"I can't imagine."

"We went out on a romantic tryst in the park. But we met the Bat, he destroyed the truck, and we stole this monstrosity."

"Why does it have to be a _romantic_ anything? Why couldn't we have just gone out for food?" Crane asked.

"Because we didn't bring any food home, and Harley will want to know what Earth-friendly place is open at two in the morning. My sex life is of zero interest to her. Just like her perverted encounters with that beast of hers are not spoken of in my presence," Ivy explained.

"I can't act like we've just had a romantic tryst in the park. She'll see right through me."

"Leave that to me. Come on. We can't stay out here all night."

Moaning, Crane exited the car. He followed Ivy to the front door. She put her hand on the doorknob, and as she turned it, she yanked Crane closer to her. Before he could resist, she pulled him against her chest and kissed him passionately. The door slowly swung open, revealing the scene to Harley.

The blonde stared. Red and the Professor were lip-locking, and serious about it. They continued on in their passion, pretending to be oblivious to Harley's wide eyes.

"Uh, welcome home," Harley said tentatively.

The kiss ended and Ivy released Crane, who gasped for breath. Ivy turned towards Harley and feigned surprise. Crane refused to even look at Harley, and his burning embarrassment was all too real.

"Hello, Harley. What are you doing up so late?" Ivy asked.

"I had a bad dream about my Puddin' leavin' me, and then I couldn't find anyone to talk to. So I came down here to watch TV and wait for you guys to come back," Harley said. "Where were you, Red? I really needed a hug."

"A dream about your "Puddin" leaving you isn't a nightmare, Harley. It's a dream you should try to make come true," Ivy said.

"But I love Mr. J and he loves me!"

"In the Mark David Chapman manner of love," Crane muttered.

"If it ever comes to that, I'll tear him apart with my bare hands," Ivy snarled, louder than intended.

"You can't tear apart my Puddin'! I need him!"

"I am not having this conversation with you right now, Harley. I've already given you all the domestic violence speeches I know, and I'm too tired to think up a new one. Go to bed and get that vermin out of your dreams."

Harley sniffled and her big, blue eyes turned shiny with tears. Ivy sighed. In her own way, Harley was as much of a manipulator as her boyfriend. She just used gentler means to get her way.

"If it will make you feel better, I'll make you some tea, and then you can turn off all these lights and go to bed. Jonathan, do you want tea?" Ivy asked as she headed for the kitchen.

"I suppose so."

Five minutes later, the three of them were gathered around the kitchen table. A kettle of water and dried chamomile flowers boiled on the stove. Harley, through the use of puppy-eyes and threatening to burst into tears over her troubling Joker-less dreams, had managed to coerce Ivy and Crane into hugging her. Crane was about as skilled at providing a comforting hug as a porcupine with distemper would have been, but Harley didn't even complain about how wet he was from the rain. Apparently, her standards for who hugged her were even lower than her standards for boyfriends.

The kettle whistled, and Ivy untangled herself from the happy hug train. She pulled three cups from the cupboard and filled each one with steaming, honey-colored tea. One cup was noticeably fuller than its compatriots.

Ivy handed the fullest cup to Harley, set one down in front of Crane, and kept the last for herself. Harley hadn't noticed the disparity in the fill levels between the cups, but the more observational Crane did. He opened his mouth to ask why he had half the tea Harley did, but Ivy pressed a finger to her lips, shushing him before he spoke.

Harley was not a particularly distinguished tea drinker, and instead of waiting for it to cool or sipping it carefully, she blew on it, sending droplets of tea all over the table. Crane was too leery over the inconsistencies between the cups and Ivy's covert dealings to risk drinking his tea. Lessons learned from the Mad Hatter made him wary of tea to begin with, and downright paranoid about drinking anything handed to him by someone who was behaving strangely.

After misting a quarter of her tea on the table, Harley deemed it tepid enough to drink. Should the Mad Hatter have witnessed Harley's tea drinking behavior, he would have suffered a conniption fit and demanded she never be allowed near a steeped drink for the rest of her life. Harley had no qualms about downing the chamomile tea as if it was nothing more than a cool glass of water. In three long swallows, she had emptied the cup, and set it down on the table.

"That was great, Red! I feel better already. Can I have some more?"

"Of course. Let me have your cup," Ivy said.

By the time Ivy returned with a refill, Harley was fast asleep and Crane, now sure that Ivy had drugged the tea, had shoved his chair away from the table. Crane was giving the redhead an accusatory and strangely hurt look, as though she'd somehow betrayed him. Though Ivy couldn't understand why, Crane's injured expression hurt her, too.

"What's really in the tea? Diazepam, temazepam, ethorpine hydrochloride?" Crane asked.

"It's plain chamomile, Jonathan. I would never drug Harley, especially not with some synthetic sedative," Ivy said.

"Bullshit. I've ingested chamomile before, and it didn't knock me out like a blow to the head."

"You had commercially grown chamomile."

"Yes, and I hardly felt drowsy afterward. Whatever is in that tea is _not_ simply chamomile."

"Jonathan, I have an enormous Venus flytrap in my greenhouse that could capture and consume an entire pig. There are plants in my refrigerator that move like animals. My kiss can kill a man in minutes. You know all of these things, but you're telling me you don't believe I could have bred a particularly potent strain of chamomile?"

Jonathan Crane suddenly felt quite stupid. Of all the truly fantastic, scientifically stunning flora that Ivy had bred, a stronger version of chamomile was by far the least impressive. Yet, for some reason, it was the only mutant plant that Crane refused to believe in. In retrospect, that made about as much sense as embracing string theory, evolution and quantum physics, but rejecting the Earth was round.

"I see your point," Crane admitted.

"Good. Now help me move Harley back to her bed. With any luck, she'll sleep until noon and think this was all a dream," Ivy said.

"That's a fine temporary fix, but what about the Cadillac parked outside? She'll know that's not a dream. And what about my pickup? It's destroyed."

"We can hide the Cadillac behind the greenhouse, and never mention your truck. You parked it out in the middle of nowhere, and I don't think we'll be taking a family road trip anytime soon."

"So we pretend none of this—the Bat, the crushed truck, the zombie plant love slaves—ever happened? That's the best plan either of us mad geniuses can formulate?"

"Seems to be that way."

Crane shrugged. "Alright."

Ivy and Crane carefully lifted Harley from her chair and carried her upstairs. Bud and Lou were sprawled around Harley's room like a pair of bearskin rugs, and Ivy glared at them. Though it didn't look like the hyenas had chewed, clawed, defaced or urinated on anything, Ivy didn't trust them. If not for the lateness of the hour and the fear the hyenas' yapping would wake Harley, Ivy would have shooed the hairballs out of the house.

After Harley was tucked in, Crane and Ivy again navigated the hyena minefield without stepping on any paws or tails. Crane exited the room first and Ivy closed the door behind her. She found Crane already heading downstairs.

"I'm going to move the car," Crane said.

"You don't have to do it right now. You should get out of those wet clothes and warm up first," Ivy said.

"It's still raining; I'll end up getting wet again. Besides, I haven't got any other clothes."

"Maybe that's not so much of a problem. You could go without clothes for a while."

Crane's brain shut down completely, as though someone had yanked out its power cord. He stared ahead blankly and his mouth hung open. If Harley could have seen his expression, she would have gleefully informed him that he looked every bit as mentally impaired as Patrick Star.

"Jonathan? Earth to Jonathan, come in, Jonathan," Ivy said.

"I-I-I," Crane stammered.

"You haven't had many people show you affection, have you? Come on." Ivy took Crane by the hand and led him from the stairs. He went robotically, his face maintaining the same mindless look.

Ivy guided Crane into her room and he didn't resist. His complete and utter plasticity was a little worrying to Ivy; he was a strong-willed man, and this passive emptiness was unnatural for him. She would not do anything to Crane until she snapped him back into the correct mind frame.

"Jonathan. Crane. Scarecrow."

The last one did it. Crane shook his head, blinked, and came back to his senses.

"Are you alright?" Ivy asked.

"Do you plan to have sex with me?" Crane said.

Well, that was straightforward enough.

"If you want."

"And you're not going to do anything cruel to me? Not going to get me naked and then lock me out of the house? Not going to touch my scars and ask if I did it to myself? Not going to poke me in the ribs and laugh?"

That did not sound like the self-titled Master of Fear. That sounded like an awkward young man who'd been openly humiliated by women he'd tried to trust. Without a doubt, Ivy figured, this was Crane's repressed, sexually-stunted side emerging from whatever dusty corner of his mind it inhabited.

"No, Jonathan, I would never do any of those things to you," Ivy vowed.

"I killed the first woman I ever loved."

Ivy was not sure where that tidbit of information came from, but she suspected more would follow. People didn't just bring up a dead—murdered—lover and then move on to cheerier, unrelated subjects. Once the past was dredged up like a body from the bottom of a lake, it tended to stick around, unburied and obvious, until it had received proper attention.

"Her name was Sherry, and I spent most of high school lovesick at the mere sight of her."

Just as Ivy had anticipated: Crane's past had just shambled into the room and crawled into bed with them. As she'd also expected, his past was not a particularly cheery, happy-looking thing. It was a major turnoff.

"In tenth grade, I was punched by a member of the chess club. Sherry saw that, and she ducked into the bathroom so I wouldn't hear her laughter. I heard it anyway."

As much as Ivy didn't want to admit it, Crane's story was so pathetic it was bordering on hilarious. She certainly wouldn't laugh at him, but the chess club? Really? That was almost as bad as being beaten up by Milhouse van Houten or Steve Urkel.

"In my junior year, Sherry's boyfriend shoved me into a locker and then put a combination lock on it. I was stuck in there for two hours until a janitor happened by. Nobody was decent enough to help me, despite my persistent banging. It was incredibly cramped in there, as I was nearly at my current height."

There was no way in hell sex was _ever_ going to happen after that tale of pity and woe. Ivy gave up all hope and consigned herself to gently patting Crane on the back and telling him he was entirely justified in murdering several members of his graduating class.

* * *

Bruce Wayne stumbled into the Bat Cave as much a physical wreck as Crane was a mental one. Even after taking the antidote to Ivy's poisonous kiss, he still felt weak and his headache had done a perfect 180 and was again banging out death-metal drum solos inside his skull. His feet didn't feel like they'd carry him out of the cave, yet alone through the mansion and to his bed. Maybe he could just collapse on the floor and sleep there. Though the floor was cold and hard, it was also convenient.

"Master Wayne! I thought you promised me you would not allow anyone to get the jump on you again."

Alfred was waiting for him. Wonderful. Maybe he would bring down a blanket and a pillow, so Bruce wouldn't have to sleep on the bare, unforgiving floor.

"I said I wouldn't let Quinn and Crane get the jump on me."

"May I ask who did the jumping, sir?" Alfred said.

"It's worse than I thought, Alfred. Crane's teamed up with Poison Ivy, and they're a dangerous pair. Very dangerous."

Bruce pulled himself into a chair and removed the cowl from his head. Alfred was immediately by his side, forcing a warm mug of tea into his hands. There was nothing better after nearly being fatally poisoned than a cup of Alfred's tea. The butler's British heritage shone strongest when it came to brewing a relaxing cup of tea.

"Do you still believe Quinn is involved?" Alfred asked.

"Just because she wasn't there doesn't mean I can write her off. She and Ivy are close friends; they've formed partnerships before. I think Crane and Ivy may be planning something behind her back, though."

"What leads you to that conclusion?"

"Something Crane told me. He said he and Ivy were planning a murder. A single murder that would benefit me as well as them."

"A common enemy the three of you share?"

"Yes, a common enemy Crane, Ivy and I share, but who Quinn feels differently about."

Alfred needed no further clues. "The Joker."

Bruce nodded and sipped his tea. It was scalding hot, just the way he liked it. As it burned its way down his throat, it eased some of the weariness from his bones.

"Exactly."

"Do you believe they're capable of killing him?" the butler asked.

"They nearly killed me," Bruce said before he could think of an answer that wouldn't earn him one of Alfred's deadly disapproving looks.

Subject to Alfred's withering stare, Bruce averted his eyes and drank more tea. One day he'd learn to avoid blabbing to Alfred about his near-death encounters, but it apparently wasn't quite yet. Bruce knew the butler, who was far more than just a housekeeper, did not approve of Thomas and Martha Wayne's only son dying at the hands of some psychotic criminal, yet the worst news always somehow managed to slip out when Alfred was nearby.

"Care to elaborate, sir, or shall I allow my imagination to fill in the details?"

"I leapt down on Crane's truck, disabling it. I knew he had a passenger, and when I attempted to extract her, she surprised me. And kissed me. At first I didn't realize it was Ivy—she was wearing a hat—and almost as soon as I did, I felt her toxins go to work. When I tried to use the antidote, Crane took it from me."

Alfred's look of disapproval evolved into a fully formed frown.

"I was sure I was dead. Then Crane did something I never expected."

"What would that be?"

"He proved he's still human enough to have a heart."

Alfred's patented, shame-inducing look of disapproval transformed into a look of incredulity. "I find that very difficult to believe."

"So do I, but it happened. I was suffocating, on the verge of passing out, and he returned the antidote. He told me it was repayment, because I saved his life. I pulled him out of a burning basement, and he spared me. He wasn't happy to do it—I've rarely seen him angrier—but he did it."

"He felt as though a debt was owed, and he repaid it," Alfred said.

"And then he told me about his current murder scheme. He promised to kill me after he horrified me into insanity if I tried to intervene," Bruce said.

"That sounds like more typical behavior for the Scarecrow."

Bruce drank more tea. It had been slightly sweetened with honey, and it was like nectar. There truly was no finer drink than Alfred's tea.

"Sir, do you intend to follow Crane's advice?"

And there was the question Bruce had been expecting. He knew the moral dilemma would have to show up eventually.

"What do you think, Alfred?"

"I think Gotham would be a much more pleasant place without the Joker."

"I know it would be. And my job would be much easier with him removed from the picture. But I don't think I can stand by and let it happen. I know what they're planning, and I have an obligation to stop it."

"You could turn a blind eye this one time. Occupy yourself with other criminals, allow Crane and Ivy to settle their differences with that lunatic, free Ms. Quinn from her dreadful relationship."

Bruce sighed. Those were all valid points. With the Joker gone, Batman could stop worrying about killer laughing gas and cyanide cream pies. He could stop worrying that every circus and carnival that came anywhere near Gotham would be transformed into a killing field. He could stop worrying he'd find Harley Quinn dead at the Joker's hands. He could stop worrying he'd find another trusted friend dead or maimed, with the clown as the cause.

All those benefits, and he couldn't force himself to go through with it. He knew he wouldn't be able to let it go, to push it out of his mind. If the Joker was killed, Batman would be an accomplice to the crime.

"I can't do it, Alfred. I want to, but I can't."

"I understand, sir. I don't approve, but I understand."

"Thank you."

"I just hope you'll be alive to thank me once this mess is sorted out."

Bruce finished his tea and set down the mug. Tomorrow, he would start gathering information about the Joker's medical condition and how soon the clown might be well enough to escape from Arkham. Right now, though, Batman needed his rest.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Mark David Chapman is the deranged fan who murdered John Lennon.

Diazepam is marketed as Valium and temazepam as Restoril. They are both sedatives. Ethorpine hydrochloride is the animal tranquilizer used by fictional serial killer Dexter Morgan to subdue his victims.

Milhouse van Houten of _The Simpsons_ and Steve Urkel of _Family Matters_ are both enormous nerds.


	9. OmNomNom

I FAIL! That's what I do. I fail in grand and egregious ways when it comes to updating this fic. I want to update more, I honestly do, but _things_ get in the way.

In this case, I discovered I madly love _Doctor Who_. And that college professors love to dump a metric ton of work on you when the semester creeps towards its end. So, yeah, schoolwork and British Sci-fi, that's what I've been doing.

So, sorry, sorry, damn am I sorry for the constant delays and crap.

Anyway, please accept my sniveling apology.

And thanks for the reviews and the patience.

And Hush2.0, your wish is my command.

* * *

Crane awoke with a start when something long, thin, and serpentine slithered across his face. He flailed at whatever had just slipped along his skin, and ended up striking a delicate-looking vine that had crept from its trellis and was writhing about like an injured snake. Despite his exposure to plants that behaved as though they possessed animal brains, the green, wriggling garden hose made Crane uneasy. He certainly didn't want it on him while he slept, and he didn't like the way it undulated so freely and gracefully. It was a bloody vine, damn it, and it should behave as thus!

"Leave me alone," Crane said.

The vine continued to twist, and had the audacity to creep up the side of the bed and wrap itself around the sheets. It began to pull the sheets off of Crane's body. He was not going to let that happen, so he grabbed the sheets and pulled back.

"Let go, piss off, stop it! Go and conduct photosynthesis quietly!" Crane hissed.

As the vine was no more than an inch in diameter, it wasn't particularly strong. Crane was able to wrestle the sheets from its grasp. He wrapped the sheets around himself and lay back down.

"Jonathan."

Crane rolled over towards the source of voice. He found Ivy sitting up and grinning at him, as though his tug-of-war with the vine had amused her. At least she hadn't deemed the pulling abuse; she was ever so sensitive about her plants.

"I asked the vine to wake us up at this time. That's why it was touching you and taking the covers," Ivy explained.

"You can do that? Set your plants like alarm clocks, I mean," Crane said.

"Not all of them, but a few of the more enhanced ones can do quite a lot. Wake me up, strangle intruders, tasks of that nature."

"That's interesting."

"It still bothers you, doesn't it? You haven't gotten used to plants behaving like mine do."

"Only a little. I'm adapting and changing my long-held beliefs as quickly as I can."

"I'm glad you're learning to open your mind. But we don't have time to discuss your progress. We've got to search the Cadillac before Harley wakes up."

Ivy rose from the bed and left Crane lying there, tangled in the sheets. As she walked to the closet, Crane mused on the astounding occurrences of the previous night. He'd slept with Poison Ivy. He—the nerd, the awkward, bony bird—had occupied the same bed as one of Gotham's most beautiful and most lethal women. What was more, he'd had actual conversation with her! He'd opened up to her, displayed the scars of his past, let her see him vulnerable and unsure. And she hadn't laughed at him, not once. Hadn't scoffed at his pitiful misadventures, hadn't insulted him, hadn't demanded he get the hell out and come back once he grew a pair. She'd just patted him on the back and acted sympathetic.

It had to be a mistake. Things that good just didn't happen to men like Jonathan Crane.

"Jonathan, we need to find you some new clothes."

Crane reeled his mind in from where it had wandered. "We can't exactly go to Wal-Mart like normal people."

"I wouldn't go into a Wal-Mart if I was on fire and there was a two-for-one sale on extinguishers. Besides, whoever said we had to go anywhere?"

"You can use a spinning wheel, then? Or do you plan on knitting me a new shirt?" Crane asked.

"I can indeed use a spinning wheel—I learned how to in college, and let's leave it at that—but that isn't what I meant. Not exactly, at least."

"We're going to get me new clothes, but we aren't going to buy them or make them. Are we going to pray to the certified organic cotton gods that they drop out of the sky?"

"If you don't stop with the sarcasm, you are going to be wearing a fig leaf and nothing else."

Crane figured there was a chance Ivy was serious, so he dropped the smart remarks. He dragged himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He realized that he hadn't brushed his teeth in days, and wanted to remedy that. The last thing the Scarecrow needed was tooth decay.

Once in the bathroom, Crane was faced with the daunting task of searching a woman's medicine cabinet, and possibly even the cupboard under her sink. He felt embarrassment creeping over him; what if, while searching for a toothbrush, he found certain decidedly feminine products? And what if Ivy chose that moment to walk in on him, and caught him holding said feminine products? She'd probably drag him down to the greenhouse and feed him to Mel.

"Second shelf, next to the floss," Ivy said from behind him.

"Thank you." His voice was high, and tiny.

"Jonathan, I am not going to kill, maim, or abuse you. Not unless you do something incredibly evil, like spray CFCs into the atmosphere or burn down the Amazon rainforest."

"I had no plans to do either of those things."

"Then I suppose we'll get along fine. Now brush your teeth so I can shower."

Crane opened the medicine cabinet, discovered a fresh toothbrush exactly where Ivy had said, and tore the toothbrush from its packaging. The toothpaste was logically sitting right next to the brand-new toothbrush. Crane scrubbed his teeth, decided not to ask if there was mouth wash, and left the bathroom to Ivy.

In less than fifteen minutes, Ivy was clean, dressed in appropriate clothing, and ready to tear apart the Cadillac. She and Crane headed out into the cloudy but rainless morning. Ivy, who had kept the keys, got into the driver's seat and Crane took his place in the passenger's seat. The engine purred powerfully.

Ivy parked the Caddie behind the greenhouse, where she hoped Harley would never wander. With the car concealed, they began the search. Ivy tackled the front end of the car and Crane was assigned the trunk. The plan was for them to scour their respective areas and slowly move down and meet in the middle.

The trunk, at first glance, looked like a wash. There was a dry-cleaning bag that contained an unbelievably ostentatious faux-fur coat, a bottle of expensive vodka, several articles of skimpy woman's clothing, and a ridiculous golden cane that looked like the twin brother of the cane the pimp had been holding. Crane reached for the cane, intending to test its heft. Though he found the idea of whacking his enemies with a gold-plated stick pure nonsense, he had to admit that the gimmick did work fair enough for the Riddler.

Crane swung the cane and, to his surprise, it fell apart. The entire bottom section detached from the head and landed in the grass. What a piece of…wait just a moment!

The cane had revealed its dark, sharp secret. It was actually a well-disguised sixteen-inch blade. Crane was suddenly a great deal more impressed with the weapon.

"How are you at fencing?" Crane asked.

Ivy poked her head out the passenger's side window. "What?"

"I found a cane sword."

"That'll be useful if the Joker challenges one of us to a duel."

"It's sharp, and has a slightly longer reach than your hedge clippers."

"I'm not saying it's entirely useless, Jonathan. I'm just saying a gun would be better."

Muttering about how underappreciated his find had been, Crane fetched the cane's sheath and slid the blade inside. He then placed the cane on the roof of the Cadillac and went back to the trunk. Since the trunk was now almost empty, Crane figured the last possible hiding place would be in the spare tire well. He pried the cover off the well and grinned.

"I've found something else," Crane said.

Ivy didn't even bother to stick her head out the window. "What now? More swords?"

"No, a Dalek."

"Your sarcasm never fails to amuse me. What did you really find?"

"Come and see."

Ivy appeared at his side a moment later. She peered into the trunk and gave instant approval to what she saw.

"While something fully automatic and much more illegal would have been my first choice, it is better than the sword. Or hedge clippers," Crane said.

"I think this will do the job. Always assuming either of us can shoot."

"I've used guns on occasion."

"Does that translate to once?"

"As I'm sure you know, I prefer fear toxin in my crimes. It's much more interesting, and I get free test subjects out of the deal. Sometimes, though, guns are preferable. I won't claim to be the Lone Ranger, but I can shoot."

"So you can shoot the Joker in the knees, and I can beat him with a shovel. That's a plan I can accept," Ivy said.

Crane and Ivy removed the small weapons stash—three handguns, and a sawed-off shotgun—from the spare tire well. They were then faced with the task of what to do with the arsenal. Hiding it in the house wasn't smart, not with Harley and her keen-nosed pets wandering wherever they pleased. Leaving the guns in the car would equate to keeping all their eggs in one basket: if Harley found one, she would almost certainly find the other. Burying the guns in the flowerbed would promote corrosion of the metal and deterioration of the soil.

"Mel. We could hide them with Mel," Crane said.

"Mel can fully digest solid bovine bone in three hours. Dissolving the guns would take a little longer, but they'd be gone—and Mel would be poisoned—long before we ever got a chance to kill the clown," Ivy replied.

"I don't mean in Mel's mouth. I mean in Mel's vicinity, among his leaves. He'd serve as both camouflage and a guard. An enormous, man-eating guard no one would dare to approach."

Ivy gave Crane a quick peck on the lips. "You're a smart man. Mel's _my_ flytrap, and I didn't even think about bringing him into our plot."

"Yes, well, Mel isn't going to try to eat me this time, is he? Because once is more than enough with that experience," Crane said. Once he'd had a second to reconsider, he regretted brining up the overgrown fly catcher.

"No, as long as you're with me, or Mel knows I enjoy your company, he won't eat you. The first time…he was hungry and you were a stranger."

Trusting that Ivy wouldn't let him be constricted and digested by Mel, Crane followed her into the greenhouse. The air inside was hot, humid, jungle-like. While Mel, in his mutant, enormous glory was the obvious centerpiece, other plants, both normal and livelier, filled the room. Crane could identify the occasional specie—an orchid there, a rose here—he couldn't fathom what corner of the rainforest some of the plants had come from.

Mel was restless, his vines trailing along the ground and his leaves rustling. The enormous flower's mouth, lined with protrusions Crane could only think of as teeth, slowly opened and closed as though the plant was breathing. Which was ridiculous. Plants didn't breathe, at least not with mouths, which they had no right to possess in the first place.

As Ivy approached—Crane stood well out of Mel's extensive reach—the plant became more active. One vine, thick as a forearm and flexible as a hose, reached out towards Ivy. The serpentine vine settled around Ivy's shoulders like a feather boa, and Crane had the strongest urge to run up, grab her around the waist, and yank her away from the vine. His memories of being grabbed and hauled towards Mel's hungry maw flashed back, and Crane was terrified the towering weed was going to reel Ivy in.

"You can come closer, Jonathan. I promise Mel won't try anything."

"I don't want to."

"You'll be fine."

"He tried to kill me before, and he'll do it again."

"He won't."

"He will."

"Trust me."

Damn, Ivy had played the trust card! If he still refused, she'd glare at him and their relationship would be shot. If he resigned himself to being strangled and dissolved like a pinch of sugar in a glass of water, at least he could die on good terms with Ivy. And if, by some miracle, Mel didn't wrap a vine around him and squeeze until he turned blue, then Ivy would probably kiss him again. Which would be quite nice.

"I trust you. I'm coming."

Crane took one step, then two, and then a third. He was about to take a fourth when he found a vine straining to reach him. His progress was erased in milliseconds.

"Ivy! Look at it! It's going to murder me!" Crane pointed at the surging vine.

"It's not trying to kill you. It's just trying to…smell you."

"I've had hyena noses shoved into my ear, so I know when something's trying to _smell_ me. I also know the not-so-fine line between smell and kill, and this vine is looking to kill."

"Smell might not be the best word, but humans don't have any sense that's comparable. The vine's trying to sense your pheromones, to identify you and remember you. Once Mel knows your chemical makeup, he won't attack you. That's why Harley and I can come in here," Ivy explained.

"My chemical makeup? Right now, I'd say I'm mostly norepinephrine and adrenaline. It's a good thing Stirk's not here, eh? He'd…he'd kill and eat me. It's Morton's Fork, I suppose."

"Jonathan, you're rambling. Let the vine touch you."

He wasn't going to offer the vine his whole body, not in a trillion years. But a finger? Maybe he would be willing to let it touch his finger. After all, if it grabbed his finger, it would probably yank the digit off rather than pulling him to his doom.

Crane extended his arm and then his index finger. He turned his head and waited to feel Ivy's vine take the finger and leave him with a gushing stump.

After a few seconds of contact, the vine withdrew, leaving Crane's hand intact. The vine withdrew and now slid harmlessly across the floor, no longer the least bit interested in Crane. Amazed that his hand was whole, Crane came up and stood beside Ivy.

"Mel, I'd like to take this moment to declare you the most terrifying plant to ever inhabit the Earth."

"You know, Mel can't really hear or see you. Everything he senses, as far as I can tell, is at the chemical level. That's to be expected, considering plant communication—"

"Plants _communicate_?" Crane interrupted.

"Of course. Sagebrush warns other sagebrush of predators through airborne chemicals, and lima beans do the same thing when attacked by mites," Ivy explained.

All the terrible, awful things he'd ever done to plants came rushing to the forefront of Crane's mind: harvesting the feeble corn crop in Georgia, pulling up weeds, stepping on grass, snapping that flower. He had to appear to plants like some insane, genocidal sadist. Every single plant Ivy had grown must have known about his dark deeds, and they were all probably conspiring to kill him!

"Jonathan! Jonathan, breathe! They're not going to rise up and murder you. Their communication isn't that sophisticated. Mel doesn't know about the times you cut the lawn," Ivy said.

"I need to get out of here, please," Crane begged. He was ashamed to admit it, but the Master of Fear was terrified of the greenery.

"You need to bring those two guns here, and give them to Mel."

"And then we can leave?" Crane asked.

"Yes, then we can leave."

Crane instantly offered the two handguns up to Mel. The flytrap, having no sense of gun safety, wrapped vines around the guns' barrels. Mel then whisked the weapons away. Two more vines grabbed the pair of guns Ivy held. A second later, there was no sign of the pimp's stolen arms.

The guns hidden, Crane decided his poor heart had withstood all the Mel exposure it was going to for the day. He beat a hasty track for the door. Once he was out of the humid greenhouse, he released a shaky breath.

"I'm trying my best to accept that plants move, obey commands, and conceal weapons, but it's hard. And it's filling me with guilt, fear, and anxiety over whether or not I'll be throttled in my sleep," Crane said.

"You will not be throttled in your sleep. Or while you're awake," Ivy replied.

"Will I be eaten alive by Mel?"

"Now? No. Before it might have been a possibility."

"Not helping."

"Sorry. Why don't we save this discussion for tonight, and get breakfast before Harley comes downstairs and starts asking for bacon?"

"Tonight? Tonight sounds like a good time for further discussion."

Ivy grinned. "Discussion, among other things, maybe."

"Of course, among other things."

* * *

While Crane and Ivy were getting licentious with each other, the Joker was looking to be fed. For the first time since Batman's amateur dental work, the Joker's mending jaw did not pulse with agony whenever he opened it. It still ached like one enormous rotten tooth, but the pain was bearable, if only slightly. Considering he hadn't had any knockout painkillers since the past evening, he supposed it was a good sign.

Good sign or not, the Joker wanted to be pain-free enough to eat. He threatened violence and murder, and fussed until a nurse left her station and approached him.

"Waiter, I'd like my morning morphine, and then scrambled eggs. And chocolate milk. What's the muffin of the day: blueberry?" the Joker asked. It hardly mattered what the muffin of the day was _supposed _to be. Cranberry, blueberry, pumpkin and apple all ended up looking like Black Mask's face: burnt and unappetizing. Though the Joker had never attempted to nibble Black Mask's face, he'd bet it probably tasted a lot like an Arkham muffin, too.

The nurse sighed. "You're off morphine."

"What?"

"I've got the orders. The last thing Gotham needs is the Joker addicted to opiates, so the doctors agreed to cut you off. You can have Tylenol."

"What?"

"Tylenol."

"_What?_"

"So you don't become a dope fiend."

"WHAT?"

"For your good, and everyone else's, too."

"_WHAT_!"

"You heard me, and I'm not standing here all day. I'll get you some Tylenol, and then your breakfast."

Before the Joker could get any louder or shriller, the nurse moved off to retrieve the painkillers and to call and orderly who could bring the Joker's breakfast. The clown plopped down on the less-than-plush mattress. There went his happy pills.

Even in his grumpy state, the Joker couldn't forget about his hungry he was; his empty stomach growled angrily. He'd been incapable of eating solid food for days, and ginger ale wasn't exactly filling. Considering how starved he felt, Tylenol might be strong enough to get him through breakfast.

The Joker lay back and waited for whatever slop the Arkham kitchen drones had prepared. The kitchen workers, in the Joker's opinion, were probably aliens that had come to Earth, found jobs in the asylum, and prepared the delicacies of their home world, which amounted to semi-toxic sludge that humans were just capable of digesting. That theory would certainly explain some of the unidentifiable foreign bodies the patients had picked out of their meals over the years.

The longer he waited for his breakfast, the more the Joker thought about what he would do once he escaped. After he'd maimed, tortured, and killed all the belligerent nurses, doctors, janitors, and guards who had mocked his beaten state, the first thing he was going to do was find some decent grub. That sounded like a legitimate plan if he'd ever heard one.

* * *

CFC stands for chlorofluorocarbon and it's a chemical that depletes the ozone layer.

Ah, the Daleks. In case you don't know, a Dalek is an oft-appearing villain from the British show _Doctor Who_. Imagine a salt shaker, stick an eyestalk on it, and give it a shrill, robotic voice that screams "EXTERMINATE!" and you've got a pretty good picture.

Cornelius Stirk is a Batman villain who eats hearts. Weird little bloke, he is.

Morton's Fork: either way, it sucks.


	10. The Most Important Meal of the Day

This fic may be cursed. Just when I think I've got all the time in the world to update it, something really distracting and time-consuming happens. What happened this time? Let me show you. In song.

Daleks to the left of me, Jokers to the right! Here I am, stuck in the middle with no clue what to do!

I'm stuck between two fandoms I love deeply. The British one is winning the time war, if you would, and poor, neglected _Revenge of the Nerds_ suffers. Again! If you all run off in sheer disgust and never review/read this fic again, I will completely understand.

If my puling, pathetic explanation hasn't driven you off, let me thank you for your incredible patience.

Also, thanks for the reviews. Especially Hush2.0, who sought me out and made me write this.

* * *

Harley awoke when her face collided with the floor. She yelped at the pain in her nose and rubbed at it to make sure it wasn't broken. Once she had determined it was fine, she sat up and wondered what had happened to the soft bed and the warm sheets. Then she saw Bud's spotted butt occupying the area her non-spotted butt had been occupying ten seconds ago. The hyena had shoved her out of bed and was curled up in the warm imprint her body had left.

"Bud!" Harley scolded.

The hyena cocked an ear but didn't even bother opening his eyes. He wasn't getting up just yet. This spot was comfortable.

"There was enough room for all of us! You didn't have to kick me out," Harley said.

There had been enough room, if only barely. Bud and Lou had kicked each other all night while they'd been jostling over territory, and neither of them had gotten much sleep. Harley slept like the comatose, and somehow hadn't felt the tails, snouts, paws, and shoulders that had collided with her throughout the night as the hyenas fought for the limited space.

"Fine, sleep there. I'm goin' to get some breakfast, and see if I bring you any."

Harley gave Bud one final reproachful glare before leaving her room. The hyena snorted in his sleep.

In the kitchen, Harley found Red and the Professor already up and at 'em. Crane was sitting at the table and nibbling a piece of toast. While Ivy waited for the toaster to pop, she watered the cold-resistant plants that lurked within the fridge. The plants, obviously pleased with their breakfast, swayed rhythmically like charmed cobras.

"Morning, Red. Morning, Professor," Harley greeted.

Ivy and Crane both wished her a pleasant morning. Harley swung into an unoccupied chair, took a quick look at Crane's breakfast, and decided to sample. She snatched the last piece of toast from his plate and devoured it in three bites. Crane looked from his empty plate to the smears of jam on Harley's lips and glared at the thieving blonde.

"I love raspberry jelly," Harley said, licking the jam from her lips.

"So do I, only now I can't enjoy it anymore because you took it from me," Crane said.

"That wasn't the last slice of bread on the planet. Look, here's more." Ivy retrieved the fresh toast from the toaster, slathered it with jam, and placed it on Crane's plate.

Harley tried to snatch another bite and Crane slapped her hand. She wisely restrained herself from that point onward.

Eventually, everyone had their fill of toast. Harley snuck off to watch the television while Crane and Ivy cleaned up. Crane was really starting to make friends with his domestic side, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He couldn't avoid washing dishes, not unless he wanted to engender Ivy's wrath, but he couldn't help but wonder if over-exposure to household chores would tame him somehow.

Once the dishes were clean and the jam was returned to the fridge, Crane and Ivy needed something new to occupy their time. They couldn't sneak off to plan while Harley was roaming around, and Ivy surmised any new exposure to lively plants would cause Crane's heart to explode like a grenade. Maybe they could just read books.

"Red, Professor Crane, come watch TV with me," Harley called from the living room.

Ivy sighed. She often wished she didn't own a television. But then she imagined how clingy Harley would be if there was nothing to distract her. For the sake of Ivy's sanity, personal space, and free time, the TV remained.

"What's on?" Ivy asked, knowing it would be nothing she was even slightly interested in.

"_Invader Zim_."

That sounded about as thought-provoking as _Captain Underpants_ and as tasteful as Bruce Wayne's infamous escapades (not that Ivy cared about them). Just so she could say she'd given the cartoon a fair chance, Ivy took a quick peek at the TV. A mentally disturbed robot was laughing and hitting itself in the head while a group of green-skinned aliens watched with disinterest.

"No thank you, Harley, I'm going to save my brain cells."

Crane channeled his inner ninja and tried to sneak from the room unnoticed. He hadn't even managed to lift his stealthy left foot when Harley spotted him. She smiled and energetically patted the spot next to her on the couch.

"Come on, Professor, it's a funny show and you need to develop a sense of humor. You're too grouchy and angry all the time."

"I like my personality the way it is, thank you very much," Crane replied, miffed by Harley's character analysis.

"Come on, there's plenty of room for improvement."

"That's borderline insulting."

"But Gir's gonna do the squirrel imitation and—oh, oh, look! He's doin' it."

While Harley was distracted by the unbalanced robot, Crane ran for it. He would rather stick his hand into a nest of bullet ants than watch Nickelodeon. He would rather be buried up to his neck in sand and left on the beach while high tide rolled in. He would rather be locked in the greenhouse with Mel. Well, maybe not the last one, but definitely the other two.

Free from the blinding stupidity of the TV, Crane ran for the stairs. He wasn't sure what he was going to do up there—locking himself in the bathroom wasn't out of the question—but there was no way he was staying downstairs. No matter where he went down there, he'd still be able to hear the television. He needed to be rid of it entirely.

Ivy was waiting for Crane at the top of the stairs. Crane was pleased to find her just as desperate as he was to escape the horror that was children's television programming. After spending so many years alone—and those unspeakably horrible weeks with the Joker—Crane still wasn't used to living with someone who knew how to make intelligent conversation.

"How do you think Harley would react if I used the parental controls to block all cartoon channels?" Ivy asked.

"I foresee pouting, begging, and misery, followed by the channels magically reappearing after a few hours," Crane replied.

"That's about what I expected. I don't plan on doing it, I was just curious."

"She is an adult and does have the right to abuse her IQ in any manner she chooses. Besides, it keeps her occupied, which keeps her from finding out what we intend to do to the clown."

"Is it selfish to risk her brain cells just so she won't bother us?" Ivy sounded like she wanted an honest answer, and not simple dismissal.

"Selfish?" Crane snorted. "If anything, you're being altruistic. You feed her, give her a warm bed, and save her from her delusional, abusive…puddin'."

"Until I heard her pet name for him, I used to like pudding," Ivy said.

Poison Ivy, she of the organic jam and whole-wheat toast, once had a sweet tooth for pudding. The Joker's nickname alone deprived her of that pleasure. For some reason, Crane found himself seriously offended on Ivy's behalf.

"One more reason to kill the clown," Crane said.

"Not that we need any more. What we need is a _way_ to do it. But let's not talk about that now. I shudder to think what Harley would do if she found out," Ivy said.

From downstairs came the sound of Harley's laughter. She certainly sounded distracted enough for Ivy and Crane to plot their nefarious plots in peace; it was only one mortifying past experience that told Ivy not to trust the television or Harley's attention span. Last year, while Harley had been entranced in something cartoonish and loud, Ivy had snuck off to indulge in the guiltiest of guilty pleasures: celebrity gossip magazines. Without warning, Harley had barged into Ivy's room and announced she was bored. Like a teenage boy caught reading _Playboy_, Ivy had blushed, stuffed the magazine under her bed, and tried to pretend she had been up to nothing naughty.

A column about who was shagging who in Hollywood had been bad enough. A detailed plan for murdering Harley's lover would not be so easy to dismiss. As much as Ivy wanted to rid the world of the clown, it would have to wait until Harley wandered off to bed, some thirteen hours from now.

"If we can't think of new and inventive ways to kill the Joker, what should we do? I doubt if you'd be interested in my research on fear and ELF's exploits don't much amuse me," Crane said.

"They don't amuse me, either. Burning down houses to save the environment, honestly, some people must have been born without a sense of irony. If you want the head of a company to change his ways, all you have to do is send him the right kind of fern for his desk," Ivy replied.

"And what kind of fern would that be?"

"The kind that infects the lungs, airways, and sinuses with toxic spores."

"Yes, of course, the toxic spore variety. Much more creative than anthrax, though lacking the mass-panic aspect. I can't see a fern, clever as it is, shutting down the post office."

"Anthrax isn't even a plant," Ivy said, dismissing it as though it was unworthy of further discussion.

"But it is scarier than a fern."

"Everything doesn't have to revolve around fear, Jonathan. There are other characteristics out there."

"Yes, but fear's my favorite, and the most interesting."

Ivy sighed. "It isn't always about _you_."

Crane knew how this speech went. Though he wasn't saturated in pop culture like certain blondes were, he'd seen the archetypal jilted woman utter the same line dozens of times over. _It isn't always about you_. Sometimes she screamed it, sometimes she sobbed it, and sometimes she slapped the message home. Slapping hurt badly enough, but those women on TV didn't have greenhouses full of carnivorous plants they could sic on any offending males.

"No, it isn't. It can be about you if you want," Crane said, praying it was the right thing to say. It sounded hokey and contrite, but what little knowledge he had on romance assured him hokey and contrite were positive qualities.

"Do you know what a compromise is?" Ivy asked, exasperated.

"Is that a trick question?"

"No, it's rhetorical. It, whatever our "it" is, shouldn't be about only one of us. I don't have to control the spotlight while you wilt over in the corner. We need to learn to share, to explore our common interests. Wanting the Joker dead is a good place to start, but not enough."

Jonathan Crane had had very few, if any, positive relationships in his life. The woman who'd raised him was a sadistic old hag who threw him to the crows whenever he angered her. His schoolmates had abused him and he'd spent as much time trapped in lockers as he did in class. His henchmen had a habit of mocking him when they believed he wasn't around. His demonic houseguest had tortured him and nearly burned him alive in the basement.

All those negative experiences left him clueless about how to function in a mutual and healthy—at least as far as a relationship between two certifiably insane criminals could be—relationship. He wasn't particularly good at sharing his feelings, or taking other people's interests into account. He was the Scarecrow, damn it, and the Scarecrow's social skills consisted of spraying people in the face with fear toxin and then laughing about it! He didn't know how to sit with a woman and 'communicate' and 'open up' and 'let her see the real him' and all that other useless shit normal people did to show their civility.

Ivy could see how hard Crane was struggling. She sympathized. After his great, sprawling confession last night, she'd realized just how difficult any decent relationship with him would be. And that was what she wanted. A level, equal relationship. Not a criminal partnership that would dissolve the second the Joker died, not a week-long fling, and definitely not a plant zombie.

"Jonathan, it's alright. We can start out small. We don't have to stare into each other's soul. Let's talk about something we enjoy. How about books?" Ivy asked.

Crane muttered something; Ivy couldn't catch it all, but she did manage to pick up the phrase "feminine horror" followed by a derisive snort.

"What was that, Crane? Don't you think women can write horror stories?"

"I—"

He suddenly found himself being dragged down the hall. She was going to kill him. She was going to drag him into the bedroom and let those bizarre little vines wrap around his throat and squeeze until…

"I've got three words for you, Jonathan. Charlotte Perkins Gilman."

Technically, those were names, not regular words. They'd never fly in Scrabble. Still, they were much nicer than "prepare to meet your leafy fate."

* * *

While Crane and Ivy discussed _The Yellow Wallpaper_ and marveled over how perfectly it merged her feminism with his love of fear and aberrant psychology, the Joker was having some fun of his own. He was denied his happy pills and his breakfast looked and tasted like cold goat puke, but he was given a new friend. Good old Sweepy the janitor had apparently been attacked, his mop had been repurposed as a bludgeon, and poor Sweepy had suffered some facial trauma.

Sweepy had never been a particularly attractive man, and a broken cheekbone, swollen lips and chipped tooth weren't going to make his wife love him anymore. The Joker was more than happy to remind the janitor how deformed he now looked. Sweepy responded by flipping the clown off. The Joker made a mental note to find Zsasz another spoon and then introduce him to Quasimodo's Mexican housekeeper.

"You're not even back with the general population and already they're crazier than usual! Clown, I really don't like you," Aaron Cash growled. He'd already had to break up two fights, stop one inmate from strangling another, and carry a semi-conscious maintenance man to the infirmary. He didn't need the clown's bullshit on top of everything else.

The Joker grinned at the head of security and then decided to leave Sweepy along and focus on Cash. It was more satisfying, tormenting Cash. He was such a good sport about it.

"Hey, Aaron old buddy, old pal of mine. I've got a question for you. How do you pick your nose?"

Cash leveled the Joker with a glare that could have frozen helium. The psychotic clown was unfazed. If anything, the deathly glare only made delivering the punch line all the sweeter.

"Carefully! Ha, get it?" The Joker hooked his index finger and wiggled it.

Cash's glare got a few degrees colder and hit absolute zero. The Joker, his finger still hooked, began to talk like a pirate.

"Arr, matey, all you gots to lose is an eye and a leg and you can join me crew. Arr. Avast."

"The second you get out of that bed, I'm gonna plant my shoe so far up your ass you'll taste leather."

Leaving the Joker to giggle madly and play pirate with himself, Cash stormed out of the room. With the big boss man gone, the clown's interest fell back onto Sweepy. Pretending to be Captain Purple Beard was fun, but making the mop peon's life miserable was a little better.

"Sweepy, you want to join my motley crew? You can swab the poop deck."

"_Cierra la boca_," Sweepy replied.

"This is America, and we speak English. And pirate."

"Go to hell, clown. I'm not putting up with your crap."

The Joker was not amused. His smile faded and his expression turned grim. He had been having a good time, a real laugh riot, but Sweepy's negative attitude ruined it.

"You know, Sweepy, I'm feeling pretty perky today. I got my morning dose of protein, fiber, and cockroaches, and I think I could probably break your neck before Cash could hustle back in here. Want to find out?"

"No."

"Then be a good little janitor and remember who you're talking to! I'm the Joker, and if you need to be reminded, I'll make sure I visit your family's little shanty and leave a message you'll never forget!"

Sweepy's look of horror was priceless. The Joker burst into wild, echoing laughter. Goat-spew breakfast aside, today was shaping up to be one good day.

* * *

Crane and Ivy may not like _Invader Zim_, but I do. The episode Harley's watching is the first one ever.

_Captain Underpants_ is a series of books about a superhero who wears only underpants and a cape.

Anthrax is actually a bacterium.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman is most famous for her short story _The Yellow Wallpaper_, which is about a woman who slowly goes insane after being locked in the attic—for medical reasons—by her physician husband.

Helium has the lowest melting point of any element: negative 458 degrees F (272 Celsius). In case you're unfamiliar with what that means, you need to cool helium to minus 458 to make it solid.

_Cierra la boca _is Spanish for "shut your mouth."


	11. I Do Not Like the Cone of Shame

For my safety, I better not say much. Though I suppose I had better apologize, crawl about on my belly for a bit, and then scurry back into hiding. Yeah, I think that's best for everyone.

I suppose I should also thank my reviewers, and thank them most heartily for not seeking me out with torch and pitchfork. So thanks, reviewers, thanks a lot.

* * *

Crane and Ivy were having a stimulating conversation about feminism and vampires when they heard a peculiar scratching noise. They considered, briefly, to ignore it and continue on their scintillating discussion. That option had to be discarded when the scratching became increasingly furious and was punctuated by pitiful, whining howls.

"Bud and Lou. They're probably hungry or miss Harley," Crane said.

"I'm sure they do. She spoils them rotten and if they don't get attention, they'll chew through the door. And then I'll be forced to do something drastic to them." Ivy headed for the door.

Since he wasn't crazy enough to carry on the conversation by himself, Crane decided to accompany Ivy. He followed her down the hall to Harley's room. The scratching and whining intensified the closer they came to the door.

"They want their freedom," Crane said.

At the sound of a recognized voice, Bud and Lou put all their effort into acting as desolate and desperate as possible. Their whining reached an ear-stabbing pitch, and both Crane and Ivy winced. Before any eardrums were ruptured, Crane opened the door and released the furry prisoners.

Like a tsunami of fur and saliva, Bud and Lou pounced on Crane to show their eternal gratitude. He was bowled over and the pair of hyenas took great pleasure in slobbering all over him. Crane shouted his indignation and tried to stave off the merciless—and completely adorable—assault. He managed, after some flopping, to turn over on his stomach. He then threw his hands over his head and tried to protect his face from Bud and Lou's eager tongues.

Ivy had retreated as soon as the hyenas had burst from the room with all the force of floodwaters through the South Fork Dam. She favored flora to fauna for a wide variety of reasons, and the scene taking place on her floor only strengthened her prejudices. Mel would never, despite his fearsome demeanor, ever behave like Harley's uncontrolled pests.

"Harley! Your pets are eating Jonathan! Get up here and take them outside where they belong!" Ivy shouted.

The blonde took her sweet time climbing the stairs. She knew her Babies weren't really eating the Professor—he'd be screaming if they were—and she also knew Red was going to be wearing her patented look of extreme disapproval. Harley did not like the patented look of extreme disapproval. It was Ivy's version of the cone of shame.

"Get rid of them, and if I catch them in my house once more, you're never going to see them again," Ivy threatened.

Yep, that was definitely the patented look of extreme disapproval, and it was as harsh as ever. Putting on her best sad puppy face, Harley pulled Bud and Lou off of Crane. He crawled away towards the bathroom to wash the hyena slobber from his face, neck, and hands.

"But Red, they don't like bein' in the shed. It's dark, and cold, and lonely," Harley said, making sure to flash the most pitiful expression humanly possible.

"And do you think Mel's internal anatomy is going to be any better?" Ivy snapped.

"You can't feed my Babies to Mel!" Harley cried. Then she actually did cry, falling to the floor in a dramatic, weepy heap.

"Harley, you're doing women everywhere a serious disservice. Crying is not the way to get what you want. In fact, it does nothing except feed into stereotypes that—"

"Babies!" Harley sobbed.

Ivy's patented look of extreme disapproval feel from her face. Her expression turned soft and tender—entirely against her will, mind you—and she picked Harley up off the ground. Harley continued to cry with such passion an outside observer would have assumed her entire family down to the second cousin twice removed had just been killed.

"I won't feed them to Mel. I promise, no matter how angry I get. But can you please keep them outside at least during the day?" Ivy asked.

"I guess so," Harley muttered.

"Isn't compromise wonderful? Why don't you feed Bud and Larry and then go outside and play with them?"

"It's Lou. Bud and Lou."

Ivy didn't care if the hyenas' names were Moon Unit and Moxie Crimefighter. What she did care about was hustling them outside before her temper made her break her minute-old promise.

"Fine. Bud and Lou. Feed them and then entertain them outside."

Harley wiped the tears from her eyes. She then patted her leg to get Bud and Lou's attention. Once the hyenas were focused on her, she led them downstairs by tempting them with "nummies."

Trying to ignore the sounds that signified a food massacre in her kitchen, Ivy went to check on Crane. She'd seen him dragging himself towards the bathroom, and that was where she found him. He was standing in front of the sink, vigorously scrubbing his face with a decidedly feminine-scented bar of soap.

"You're going to smell like lily of the valley," Ivy said.

"It licked inside my nose! _Inside my nose_!" Crane howled.

"That is disgusting."

Crane wasn't satisfied until every inch of his face was covered in floral lather. Only after he'd coated everything from the neck up did he drop the bar and wash the soap away. Ivy handed him a towel.

"Every time I show one iota of kindness to those creatures, they repay me like that. By dragging their revolting tongues all over me! I know where those tongues have been!"

"At least they'll be outside and Harley will be with them. That means no more cartoons for a while," Ivy said.

"Wonderful. I'd like to go a few hours without being French-kissed by a filthy animal."

"Did they actually…"

"Yes, one of them licked my tongue."

Ivy grimaced. There was unpleasant, there was nasty, and then there was an accidental make-out session with a scavenger that never brushed its teeth.

"I need to spit."

Crane did just that. Then he threw open the medicine cabinet door, grabbed the toothpaste and, foregoing the brush, squeezed mint paste directly into his mouth. Ivy, stuck somewhere between amazement and horror, watched as Crane chewed the toothpaste. He made the most incredible facial expressions while he went at it.

After dropping a minty atomic bomb on any hyena germs that might have gotten in his mouth, Crane spat again. Several times. It took him quite a while to clear all the mashed paste from his teeth and tongue.

"That is much better," he said, spitting one last time.

"I think you ate half of my toothpaste," Ivy said.

"I needed that much. Would you have done any different if a hyena tongue had made contact with yours?"

"I'd have taken the time to use a toothbrush."

"Everyone's got perfect hindsight."

His breath now fresh, Crane saw no reason to remain in the bathroom. He stepped past Ivy, who was glaring at the sink in disdain. The man who had splattered the basin with saliva and toothpaste had made no attempt to clean up after himself. _She_ sure as hell wasn't going to do it.

"Jonathan, you forgot something," Ivy said.

"Did I?"

"As a matter of fact, you did. Get back in here and clean the sink."

Jonathan Crane, the Master of Fear, the almighty Scarecrow, turned straight around and reentered the bathroom. Under Ivy's watchful eyes, he cleaned the sink to her specifications. He tried not to wonder how he'd fallen from the height of villainy to the position of unpaid maid.

"Alright, that's much better. Let me do something for you now," Ivy said.

Before Crane could ask what Ivy had in mind, she had grabbed his ill-fitted shirt and yanked it off over his head. He yelped like a scalded dog and reached for the shirt. Ivy hid it behind her back. Half-naked and entirely mortified, Crane crossed his arms across his chest and glared.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded. The threatening snarl in his voice was counterbalanced by the bright red of his face.

"I told you before that you were getting new clothes. And now you are," Ivy explained.

"There are _not_ any new clothes here. Now return my shirt at once. I…I have a low tolerance to the cold."

Ivy couldn't help but examine Crane in his shirtless state. She hadn't removed his clothes to make an assessment of his physical attributes, but since he was there _sans_ top, it would be wasteful not to.

Crane was scrawny. Not svelte, not thin and not slender. Scrawny. A few missed meals from looking like the Allies needed to come and liberate him scrawny. He looked, Ivy decided, like an abandoned cat that had been living on the streets, pilfering just enough to hold back starvation.

"Call the circus, tell them to put me in the sideshow and market me as the Human Twig! Take pictures and send them to GCN! Do anything you want, but stop staring at me like that!" Crane shouted, startling Ivy.

"Jonathan, I…I wasn't staring because I'm horrified or I find it funny."

"Then you're the first. Congratulations. Would you like it engraved on a plaque? 'First woman not driven mad by shirtless Scarecrow.' Do you like it?"

"Of course not! Please, I don't want to offend you. And I certainly don't plan on abusing you for how you look. That's entirely anti-feminist."

Crane forced himself to tone down the anger. It was an automatic response, the snarling defensiveness, built into him from years of cruelty. It wasn't, however, something he enjoyed unleashing on Ivy. She was different from most everyone else he'd ever met and he did not want to drive her away. He didn't want to be fed to her plants, either.

"I'm sorry. Allow me to take a more civil tongue. Why did you steal my shirt, and may I have it back?"

"I took it because we really are going to get you new clothes. You can have it back if you absolutely need it, although that's going to make my job much harder," Ivy replied.

"Then keep it and let's go. I'm eager to get into something that doesn't make me look like I'm wearing an obese man's smock."

They returned to Ivy's bedroom. She threw Crane's shirt down on the bed, then went to her dresser. Crane sat on the bed and watched as Ivy opened a drawer and sorted through the few garments contained within. She selected a simple blouse and tossed it next to the shirt. Crane examined the blouse and decided he didn't have the bust to rock it properly.

"I hope you don't mind green." Ivy pulled out another shirt and showed it to Crane.

"I am entirely opposed to only a few colors, namely any shade of pink or purple. Green is acceptable."

Not counting the shirt tortured by the washing machine until its dimensions were stretched to the point it stopped being clothing and started being a comic prop, the other two garments Ivy had placed on the bed were green. Mercifully, not a screaming, neon Predator blood green, but a more subdued vegetable green. Crane worried if he did somehow fit in either of the shirts, asides from exposing his midriff, they'd also make him look like a string bean. A rather slutty, gender-confused string bean.

The last shirt Ivy pulled out was not green. It wasn't pink or purple, either. It was tawny and Crane wasn't sure how it would react to the green. He feared looking like either a dying leaf or an elf.

"We can make this work," Ivy said, putting the four shirts side by side.

"Tim Gunn wouldn't be so sure," Crane muttered.

"You watch _Project Runway_?"

"Not of my own free will."

"Someone tied you down and forced you to watch it?"

"I wasn't bound. The screwball completely flooded my world with it, so I could not escape."

"Who would do that to you? The Joker?"

Crane snorted. "As if the Joker could watch anything that didn't involve animation or explosions. Crazy-Quilt did it. I was left in the recreation room with him, and he lived solely to watch _Project Runway_. He liked it loud."

What Crane did not divulge was that he put off an escape plan for two weeks so he could see the season finale.

Tim Gunn's doubts aside, Ivy and Crane were faced with the task of making something wearable—though likely not the least bit attractive—out of four shirts that did not come close to properly fitting. Though neither of them had any ideas yet, Ivy decided to get the tools ready, should they ever be needed. While Crane picked at the collar of the tawny shirt, Ivy removed a sewing kit from her closet.

"I thought sewing degraded women everywhere," Crane said.

"Being forced into it as a career because of sexism degrades women. Being able to replace a button makes you freer."

"Ah, I see the distinction."

* * *

Outside, enjoying the sunshine and not shuttered away like an old woman with her knitting, Harley played with her adopted children. Bud and Lou belonged to a species that made its home on the African savannah and they enjoyed both the warmth and the grass beneath their paws. Harley enjoyed playing fetch with them. The stick used in the fetch game would have screamed for Ivy's help if it had a voice.

Even though watching the hyenas gnaw a stick was fun, Harley knew something was missing. Something loud and obnoxious and undeniably sexy beyond all reason. Something she could not live without, and something she was really beginning to miss, even with Bud and Lou, Red, the Professor and SpongeBob to keep her occupied.

Her Puddin', in case the clues were too abstract.

She had a Joker-shaped hole in her heart, and only man could fix it. That man, alas, was locked away in Arkham with absolutely no means of getting in contact with her. They couldn't exchange letters and conjugal visits were not gonna happen. Knowing the Joker, he had probably already spent his telephone privileges on prank-calling bars and asking for Mike Rotch and IC Wiener.

Harley sighed heavily. The more she thought about the Joker, the more she missed him. If he didn't bust himself out of the slammer pretty soon, she would have to go in and rescue him. He'd be so happy to see her, and so appreciative.

Harley drifted away into a daydream in which she, like a knight in a jester's cap instead of the more formal shining armor, liberated her poor, falsely-imprisoned Puddin' from Arkham. In the dream, the reunited pair thumbed their noses at the Arkham guards, and waltzed right out the front door of the asylum. Since it was her fantasy, Harley decided the Joker, overcome by gratitude, proposed to her once they were free. Then they eloped to Las Vegas, got married in a ceremony presided over by an Elvis impersonator, and returned to Gotham where they killed Batman and lived happily ever after.

The dream put Harley in a warm and fuzzy state. It was just so beautiful and perfect. Harley sighed again, this time out of romantic passion.

"Don't worry, Mister J. I know we'll be seein' each other real soon," Harley said. "One way or another."

* * *

The South Fork Dam broke, which resulted in the Johnstown flood, one of the deadliest disasters in US history.

The cone of shame is a plastic cone used to humiliate bad dogs in the Pixar film _Up_.

Moon Unit is the child of Frank Zappa. Moxie Crimefighter is the unlucky offspring of Penn Jillette.

Tim Gunn's catch-phrase on _Project Runway_ is "make it work."

Bart Simpson prank-called Moe's bar and asked for Mike Rotch. Fry, on _Futurama_, was duped into delivering a pizza for IC Wiener.


	12. Johnny's Got New Clothes

To Hush2.0: You've got to give me more than three days. Have mercy, man!

To The Layman: Very, very soon. As in the next chapter, to some degree.

To everyone else, thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Joker was bored. Normally, when boredom struck, he'd find a destructive way to occupy his time. He'd harass and threaten his henchman, throw something fragile against the wall, torment Harley, or kill a few innocent civilians. If none of that worked, he'd blow something up. Except perhaps the Mythbusters and Al Qaeda, nobody liked explosives more than the Joker.

In Arkham, he was denied all his usual outlets. He had no henchmen, he wasn't allowed anything more dangerous than a Styrofoam tray and plastic spork, Harley hadn't been decent enough to turn herself in, and his supply of innocent civilians was wretchedly limited. Even Sweepy was gone now; he'd hobbled home to ice his face and eat tacos, damn him.

It was all beginning to weigh on the Joker. He needed entertainment, he needed to cause havoc, and he needed to eat something that wasn't swill. If he was denied any of those necessities for much longer, he was going to die. Or he was going to become irritable. Whatever came first.

The doctor who had just come to deliver the Joker's new dose of over the counter painkillers noticed how grumpy his patient was. The Joker's happiness wasn't exactly one of the doctor's top priorities, but he figured a happy or distracted psychotic degenerate would be marginally less dangerous than an angry one. Though he didn't look forward to being insulted or threatened—which seemed to be the Joker's two favorite mediums of expression—the doctor asked what had turned the clown's smile upside down.

"Doc, have you ever been so bored you wanted to rescue a mutt from the pound, then play fetch with him using sticks of dynamite?" the Joker asked.

"Not once in my entire life," the doctor replied.

"In that case, we're done here. You've lived a life of excitement and have no idea of the suffering I'm going through. Go away and leave me to my fate." The Joker dismissed the doctor with a wave of his hand.

"I _was_ considering helping you, but if you'd rather sit there and mope, I've got a fresh cup of coffee waiting for me."

"Fine, entertain me. Know any good jokes?"

"Uh, that's not really what I had in mind."

"Don't care. Tell me a joke."

"I don't know any."

"Then I'll tell you some."

The doctor considered backing away slowly. Before he could move, the Joker grabbed his wrist and held on with a tenacity that told the doctor the only way to escape would be to chew off his own hand. He'd recently been to the dentist and his teeth were too sensitive to gnaw through the radius and ulna, so he decided to endure the jokes.

As though his audience wasn't being held against its will, the Joker cleared his throat and prepared for his performance. He flashed the doctor a toothy grin and then broke into his comic routine. Considering the poor doc didn't know even one measly joke, he'd probably find even the most cliché stuff hilarious. And if he didn't, the Joker would have to find some other ways to make him smile.

"Okay, doc. Why can't you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom?"

"I have no idea."

"Because the pee is silent!"

Naming every major muscle group in the human body was easy. Understanding dinosaur piss jokes was harder than reciting every entry in Stedman's Medical Dictionary.

The Joker noticed the blank expression on the physician's face. He obviously had failed to grasp the sheer genius of the joke. The Joker wasn't surprised; he'd started at too advanced a level for the doctor's humor-starved brain to comprehend.

"How about a joke closer to home? A patient says to his doctor, 'It hurts when I do this.' So the doctor says, "Then stop doing that!"

Not the slightest twitch. It was worse than telling jokes to Johnny! At least he had the decency to roll his eyes or snort in disgust. The doctor behaved like a rock. A dumb rock.

"I don't think you were paying attention. It hurts when I do _this_," the Joker said, twisting the doctor's hand until a grimace of pain crimped his face.

"And the doctor said…Well, what did the doctor say?" The doctor looked around with desperate eyes, trying to find someone who could pull the maniac off him. There was a guard at the other end of the room who looked asleep on his feet. By the time security arrived, the doctor surmised his carpal bones would be unrecognizable.

"He said—please don't break my arm—he said, 'Then stop doing that.' Ha, it's very funny."

Satisfied, the Joker released the doctor's wrist. With a whimper, the doctor drew his wounded hand up to his chest. He backed away out of the clown's reach and then shouted for help. The guard who had been staring at the ceiling jumped into action.

A minute later, the Joker had a gun, a set of handcuffs, and two hostages in his possession. His boredom was cured.

* * *

Unaware that their intended target was, at that very moment, orchestrating a breakout, Crane and Ivy took on the role of master tailors. Crane was more used to sewing burlap—a very forgiving fabric that incorporated mistakes into the frightful designs the Scarecrow needed—than cotton, and his stitches weren't all precise. Ivy, despite her superficial vilifying of the craft, was adept enough to make Crane jealous.

"Which collar do we keep?" Ivy asked, examining the fabric autopsy set out before her on the bed.

Crane pointed at the tawny shirt. Its collar lacked the lacy appearance of its green compatriot. Just as he refused to wear pink and purple or any variation thereof, lace was also not something he intended to have on his body.

With a few snips of her fabric shears, Ivy beheaded the shirt and then stitched its collar onto the surprising well-crafted Frankenstein top. Despite it being a patchwork of two very different shirts, the new garment was coming along well. It would never be seen on the runways of Paris, but Crane didn't think he'd die of embarrassment if he was seen in public wearing it. It was certainly better than what some people ran around Gotham dressed in.

"Try it on. I need to see if the sleeves are long enough." Ivy handed the shirt to Crane, who was happy to remedy his topless state, if only temporarily.

Most of Crane's body was limbs. He had long legs—rather like the bird of his surname—and long arms to match. He was used to having clothes that stopped at the ankle or halfway between the elbow and wrist. Clothes that were custom fit to his physique were few and far between. He couldn't exactly spend the afternoon getting measured when his face and the monetary reward associated with it were plastered all over the telephone poles and alley walls of Gotham.

"Unless you want the cuffs a little tighter, I like it. What do you think, Jonathan?"

"Nice, nice, very nice," Crane replied. He couldn't remember the last time he'd owned clothing worthy of even one positive word.

Ivy had to admit she was pleased. Assembling an entirely new garment was harder than reattaching a button, but it had all turned out well enough. Even better, she'd been able to recycle two old shirts into a brand new one. Both nature and Jonathan could enjoy the fruits of her labor.

"That went better than expected. Do you want to see if we can't transform the mini-dress, too?" Ivy asked.

"There comes a point where no amount of cosmetic surgery can help. I believe this shirt has reached that point."

It was probably true. The fabric hadn't been particularly well-knit to begin with—nothing that was sewn right expanded to twice its normal size in the wash—and any garment that incorporated the hideous shirt was going to have the same structural weakness. Ivy didn't want to waste the fabric, but she didn't want to waste time on something that would look like crap, either.

"Honestly, I'd rather see that shirt torn to pieces by Bud and Lou than ever wear it again. I was humiliated for wearing it and I'm still harboring a grudge towards it," Crane said.

Case closed, then. There was no reason—asides from the pleasure Ivy would derive from silently laughing at his grumpiness—to make Crane wear something he despised. He had a new shirt to wear, and the reviled mini-dress could always be cut into pieces and used for rags.

Crane shrugged out of his new shirt so Ivy could finish it completely. She made a few final stitches, reinforced the occasional seam, and declared herself satisfied.

It felt good to be fully clothed. Crane appreciated the rub of cotton against his back, and smiled with contentment. This was like the feeling he got when he donned his mask, only dialed down to a fraction of its power.

His mask! Where in the hell had he left it?

This was not like him, not in the least. He _never_ forgot about his mask; it would be like the Mad Hatter forgetting about his hats or the Riddler forgetting about the idiotic clues that always led to Batman beating him senseless. Without his mask, he was not the Scarecrow.

"Jonathan, what's wrong?" Ivy asked. Crane looked like he'd just boarded an airplane only to then remember he'd left the oven on and the front door unlocked.

"My mask! I have no idea where I left it!"

"You don't need to give yourself a heart attack. I know where it is."

The look of anxious horror dimmed a little. "You do?"

"Yes, I do. It's in the car. I found it under the seat; it must have fallen down there when you fell asleep," Ivy said.

"Oh." Wonderful, he sounded as stupid as he felt. "I'm going to get it. Thank you for preventing my impending stroke."

Eager to get his mask back—and vowing to never neglect it like that again—Crane headed downstairs. He walked past the television, and then backed up. Harley had left it on. Despite Ivy's environmental militarism, Harley couldn't even be bothered to turn off the TV.

Crane pointed the remote control at the TV, then paused. The television was on a news channel. Though Crane wouldn't claim he knew everything about Harley's viewing habits, the chances of her watching something as pertinent and worldly as a 24-hour news network were roughly the same as her chances of watching anything presented by Michio Kaku.

Out of a sneaking suspicion, Crane pressed the 'back' button on the remote. The blonde newswoman gave way to a talking dog. That was more Harley's cup of tea. In her haste to get the hyenas out the door, Harley had attempted to turn off the set. She'd just hit the wrong button and hadn't bothered to try again.

Though he was in a hurry to retrieve his mask, something tickled Crane's brain and made him return to the news program. The breaking news banner probably meant nothing—it appeared whenever the celebrity tart of the day left rehab or was sent back by a court order—but he wanted to make sure an asteroid wasn't headed for Earth. That would be a nasty surprise.

The anchor looked legitimately unnerved, which ruled out celebrity rehab drama. Crane glanced from her manicured face down to the text below the breaking news banner. He expected unrest somewhere in the Middle East, or perhaps an earthquake in a country ninety percent of America didn't know existed. Instead, he got a shock.

"The police commissioner assured the public that all appropriate measures were being taken, and advised against any contact with the escaped patients, all of whom are described as very dangerous. When asked if Batman would be assisting the police, the commissioner had no comment," the anchor said, reporting on a press conference that had apparently just ended.

"Escaped patients. Who—" Crane began to ask, but the perky blonde was kind enough to bring up the mug shots.

"A total of fifteen patients escaped custody, though there are reports coming in that three have been recaptured. We will keep you informed of all developments." The anchor's voice continued on in the background as the photographs flashed across the screen.

The first two mug shots elicited no response from Crane. He didn't know who the hell they were and he didn't care. They weren't important.

The third picture was of the Riddler. Interesting, but not particularly significant to Crane's plans. The Riddler and Scarecrow maintained a truce that allowed them to play chess and watch quiz shows together peacefully. For two criminally insane genius egomaniacs, they had a decent relationship and were not often dangerous to each other. Correction, the Riddler was never a danger to the Scarecrow. When provoked by the Riddler's self-centered preening, the Scarecrow could be something of a beast.

Nigma's pompous smirk was replaced with the toothy, off-putting smile of the Great White Shark. Once again, Crane was mildly interested but nothing more. Warren White had no quarrel with Crane, and his escape was of no consequence.

The next mug shot was unrecognized. Its follower, however, made even the mighty Scarecrow a little…scared. Killer Croc, looking scalier, uglier, and more violent than ever, filled the screen with his snarling maw. He was kept apart from the other inmates—due to his propensity for eating them—and his watery cell was not easy to access. Whoever had orchestrated the breakout had to have released Croc on purpose. Probably to distract the guards and cause mass casualties, Crane supposed.

Another photograph and another familiar face: Black Mask. Proceeding him were Tweedledee and Tweedledum, a pair Crane considered irredeemably useless. The tenth face was one guaranteed to cause some sleepless nights around Gotham: Victor Zsasz. Faces eleven and twelve were not costumed criminals, just run of the mill lunatics, and they didn't look particularly bright, either. Thirteen was the ever-anachronistic Maxie Zeus. The fourteenth mug shot belonged to the flunky villain Killer Moth.

"The last one's got to be the Joker," Crane muttered.

The television didn't disappoint. The Clown Prince, in all his mad glory, was back on the streets. Tens of thousands of doors across Gotham were no doubt being locked and thousands of guns were being loaded and kept close. Somewhere, the Bat was also getting antsy for the sunset so he could begin the hunt for his clownish foil.

Crane's mask suddenly didn't seem so important. He put off retrieving it and hurried back upstairs to relay the news of the Arkham breakout to Ivy. They had some very important decisions to make.

* * *

Bruce Wayne, who was trying to sleep off the lingering effects of Ivy's poisonous kiss, was nearly dragged out of bed by his butler. He groaned, untangled himself from the sheets, and looked up at Alfred with bleary eyes.

"What's happening?" Bruce asked, yawning.

"There's an announcement on the television that may interest you, sir," Alfred replied.

"Is someone having a two-for-one cape and cowl sale?"

"I'm afraid not. A few of the Batman's friends have escaped and left quite the path of destruction in their wake."

Bruce was out of bed and headed for the nearest television so quickly the Flash would have had trouble keeping up. Alfred took one look at the rumpled sheets and decided they could wait. He, at a saner pace, followed Bruce. Though the butler did hate to admit it, it was time to leave the land speed record to the younger generations.

Alfred found Bruce watching the screen with rapt attention. A severe frown graced the hero's face. He obviously found the news every bit as distressing as Alfred had anticipated.

"Fifteen inmates, Alfred. I'm going to have a busy night."

* * *

Stedman's Medical Dictionary (28th Edition) has over 107,000 entries.

"Nice, nice, very nice" is a line from _Cat's Cradle _by Kurt Vonnegut. Specifically, it's from the 53rd Calypso of the Book of Bokonon.

Michio Kaku is a theoretical physicist and one of the founding fathers of string theory. He has made appearances on the Discovery Channel, Science Channel, and in BBC specials.


	13. Team Joker and Team Scarecrow

Thanks so much for the reviews! They're cool.

* * *

Ivy joined Crane on the couch and together they sat glued to the television screen, joining thousands of Gothamites that were waiting for the latest developments. The newscasters, bombarded by incoming information and reports, were hardly recognizable as the bright and cheery faces that plastered billboards and advertisements across the city. They looked harried and nervous; the blonde one was developing a bit of a stutter as she tried to relay everything the teleprompter told her. Her male counterpart fidgeted like a kid with ADHD who had been denied his Ritalin and had been instead offered a shot of espresso.

"I'm hearing that Aaron Cash, head of Arkham security, has prepared a statement. We're going to bring you that as soon as we have the feed," the twitchy anchor said.

They had the feed a minute later. Crane took one look at Arkham's hard-case security boss and could have fist-pumped the air if he was into such things. Since he wasn't, he just grinned like a self-satisfied maniac.

Cash had not fared particularly well during the breakout. His arm was in a sling, half of his face was bandaged, and he had developed a pronounced limp. Most men in his condition would have been down for the count. Considering he'd once had a hand bitten off, Cash found his current state hardly more than a nuisance.

Hobbling up to the cameras with all the grace and speed of Dr. House after a day without Vicodin—and looking just as grumpy—Cash prepared to deliver his "statement". And by statement, he meant threat. And by threat, he meant he was going to kill the Joker next time he saw him and wanted the whole world to know.

"Everybody already knows what happened at Arkham today and I'm not going to repeat the same crap. I've got a message for one person in particular. The Joker! Clown-boy, if you're hearing this right now, you'd better run for your damned life! You sent that big-assed lizard after me, and when I get my hands on you, I'm going to stick this hook so far up-"

The rest of the broadcast consisted of a long censorship beep. Cash, muted but not defeated, began to gesture madly with his hook hand. In Crane's opinion, he looked like a pirate in a silent movie. The gimpy leg and the eye covered in bandages only added to the image. Maybe that had been the Joker's plan all along: to turn Cash into a maimed pirate. It sounded like the kind of thing the Joker would have paroxysms of joy over.

"He is pissed," Ivy observed.

"He's the backup plan," Crane said. "If we don't kill the clown, Cash will."

The last image before the screen flicked back to the two anchors was of Cash being gently but firmly led away from the podium by two uniformed Arkham guards. Both guards were grinning and looked immensely pleased with their boss' rant.

"That was certainly…emotional," the anchorwoman said. "I would hate to be the Joker right now."

"Yeah," was all her coworker could manage.

With Cash's explosion over, the news station went back to sources that didn't swear or wave around their prosthetics. Though it was far less exciting than seeing the head of security threaten a maniac with violent death, Crane and Ivy watched anyway. They needed as much information as possible before they could decide what their final plan would be.

Halfway through another cycle of mug shots, Harley and her pets barged into the house. Luckily, the three of them made almost as much noise as a full band ensemble and gave Crane plenty of time to change the channel to something boring. By the time Harley skipped into the living room, the waves of pure, unadulterated dry science that poured from the television could have put mold spores to sleep. Harley took one look at the program, stuck her tongue out at it, and walked off to the kitchen. The hyenas trailed behind her.

"I thought I told her to keep those beasts outside," Ivy muttered as the sound of the fridge being ransacked met her ears.

"We're goin' back out, Red, don't worry. I just needed somethin' to drink quick," Harley replied. Her ears were sharper than Ivy thought.

"Try water from the faucet," Ivy said.

"Water's borin'! Where's the apple juice?"

"There's almost nothing in the refrigerator. If she can't see it, it's either gone or she's blind," Crane said.

"Harley, are you blind?" Ivy asked.

"Nope."

"Then you drank the last of the apple juice and there isn't anymore."

"You're right, I drank it yesterday. Oops. Red, we're out of apple juice."

"I'll get right on it. Until then, drink the damned water and go away."

Sensing she was getting on her best friend's nerves, Harley stopped complaining, grabbed a glass, and filled it with tap water. A minute later she left the empty glass on the table and headed back outside. There was still plenty of daylight left and, judging by Red's standoffish attitude, it would be in everyone's best interest if Harley enjoyed every last second of it.

The door slammed shut and Ivy released a sigh. That had been miles from a close call, but it still worried her. If Harley found out her boyfriend had sprung himself from Arkham, she wouldn't rest until she was reunited with him. Crane and Ivy's plan would be flushed, the Joker's continual existence would be a slap in the face, and Harley would be back in her degenerate relationship.

"We've got to do something. It's only a matter of time before she goes channel surfing and stumbles across a news report," Crane said.

"I know, but Gotham's a big place. The clown won't be easy to find, especially if he doesn't want to be found," Ivy pointed out.

"If he was an ordinary person or thug, I'd agree with you. But he's the Joker. Subtlety is not his area of expertise and he has a compulsion to cause damage. Besides, he's homeless. He only stayed with me because he burned down his old lair."

"Do you think he's mooching off of someone else now? Someone he freed from Arkham?"

Crane did think that very much. The Joker, parasitic creature that he was, would never pass up the opportunity for a free ride, meal, or bed. At least a handful of his fellow escapees had to have something to offer the clown. It was just a matter of figuring out who was the most likely candidate.

"We need the white board," Ivy said.

The dry-erase board that had served during their initial planning period was brought out of retirement. Crane returned to the news channel and then he and Ivy waited for the cycle of mug shots to begin again. Once the names and faces of the escapees appeared, Ivy recorded them on the board.

Apparently, the rumors of three escapees being captured were true, because there were now only twelve mug shots. Two of the missing mug shots belonged to Tweedledee and Tweedledum and the third was of one of the inmates Crane hadn't been able to identify. Crane wasn't surprised the rotund duo had been recaptured without Batman's help; an eight year old junior deputy armed with a BB gun and a plastic badge could have probably taken them down.

Ivy wrote the remaining names on the board. Crane immediately wiped out several names with his hand. Ivy gave him a skeptical look.

"Killer Croc is out because he's an enormous lizard who lives in the sewers and can't distinguish friend from food. These four—I've never heard of them before—are common psychopaths. The Joker might recruit them, but they're not going to have anywhere to live except under a bridge. Zsasz, I don't think even the Joker's crazy enough to be his roommate," Crane explained.

"Alright, that makes perfect sense. Of our remaining candidates, who's most likely?" Ivy asked.

They examined the five names that remained: Killer Moth, Maxie Zeus, Great White Shark, Black Mask, and the Riddler. It was an eclectic bunch, and nobody immediately leapt out as the Joker's latest rube.

"Killer Moth has the backbone of a sponge and the criminal capability of Charles Fuller. He'd be an easy target for the Joker," Crane said.

"Only if the Joker was interested in cocooning people or being mesmerized by streetlights," Ivy replied.

"Clowns can be interested in cocooning. It's happened in movies."

"Jonathan, I don't think the Joker is one of _those_ clowns."

"If not Killer Moth, who do you believe it is?"

Ivy paused and considered the list of villains. Killer Moth might have been a flying absurdity, but Black Mask and Great White Shark were as legitimate as they came. They'd probably struck out for their own respective criminal enterprises as soon as their cell doors had slid open. Neither of them would be conned into becoming the Joker's victim.

"Maxie Zeus or the Riddler." Ivy was unable to narrow down the list any further.

"Maxie Zeus? Unlikely," Crane said.

"Why?"

"He thinks he's the highest of the Greek gods. He wouldn't share his home with a lowly clown. I doubt if the Joker would even want to stay with him, anyway."

"What makes Maxie Zeus the one man the Joker won't mooch off of?"

"Have you ever had a conversation with the man? You need to be intimate with Homer, Sophocles, Aristophanes, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle to know what he's talking about. The only Homer the Joker knows drinks beer and strangles his son. The constant Hellenistic crap would fry the clown's brain."

Ivy was so swayed by Crane's argument that she erased Maxie Zeus from the list. She still didn't agree on Killer Moth, but she was willing to concede on the Greek nutcase.

"The Riddler's not exactly tough, but he does know how to assemble a bomb. Have any objections to him?"

Now it was Crane's turn to reflect. The Riddler was incredibly egocentric, but he was also easily threatened. He was, Crane knew, one of the Bat's favorite sources of information. All it took was a little dangling from the nearest bridge and the Riddler sang like a canary. The Joker could certainly do worse than threaten: he could follow through on those threats. Were he to dangle someone from a bridge, the poor bastard would likely end up going for a swim with the fishes.

"Nigma would never voluntarily allow the clown near him. He hates him. They've had a feud running for years now over which is superior: jokes or riddles. I don't know why it started, or how, but I do know every argument Nigma had for riddles was countered by a dead baby joke," Crane said.

Almost nobody, it seemed, wanted to be in the Joker's company. Ivy could only wish Harley would develop the same mentality. Not that it seemed likely.

"Just because they hate each other doesn't mean the Joker wouldn't kidnap the Riddler and force him to build something lethal." Ivy didn't bother pointing out that Crane's blatant hatred of the Joker hadn't kept the clown away.

"Nigma's a coward at heart. He'd bolt before the Joker could get to him. I'm sure, in the confusion, Nigma ran in the opposite direction of any serious action."

"You've got his psychology all figured out, don't you?"

"He's not complicated, despite all his pomp and narcissism. At his core, he's a little unloved boy with daddy issues," Crane responded.

"So his psychological profile eliminates the Riddler." Ivy erased his name from the board. While she was at it, she wiped off Black Mask and Great White Shark, as well. They were a little too powerful for the Joker to risk getting on their bad sides. Crane must have agreed, because he didn't say anything about their dismissal.

Only one name remained on the board, and that was Killer Moth. Unless Crane was wrong about the Riddler—and he probably wasn't; Nigma _was_ a coward and the fact was known far and wide—that meant the Joker was lodging with a human bug. Which was appropriate, Ivy realized, and no better than he deserved.

"It's decided. Now what do we do about it? Should we try to find Killer Moth? I don't suppose you've got a psychological profile of him that tells us where he likes to live," Ivy said.

"I've got a psychological profile on nearly everyone who's ever donned a costume in this city. When I'm confined to Arkham, analyzing my fellow inmates is my favorite way to pass the time. Unfortunately, Killer Moth's profile doesn't include any of his bases of operation. It only tells me that he's a complete failure and his expectations are too high." Anybody that dressed up like a purple, orange and green moth and expected anything other than a blast of insecticide was setting his expectations too high.

"How hard can it be to find him? Maybe we could set out a few bug zappers and wait," Ivy suggested.

"Or we could wait until dark and then drive around until he collided with the windshield."

"Or we could just leave the porch light on."

Crane and Ivy might have written a book on how to trap Killer Moth if not for an unexpected knock on the door. Ivy grabbed the remote and turned the television back to Harley's channel. Crane rose from the couch and headed for the front door. He considered grabbing a knife from the kitchen first, then figured anyone who was knocking wasn't Batman.

"Who could that be? Harley maybe?" Ivy ventured. She got up to follow Crane.

"Do you honestly think she would knock?" Crane whispered as he crept to the door.

"Honestly, no, not in a million years."

Crane reached for the door knob. He drew his free hand into a fist. If whoever was outside was an enemy, Crane was ready to punch them in the face.

"Open it," Ivy said.

Crane did just that. He swung the door open so fast the man standing outside leapt backwards and nearly fell on his ass. Crane took one look at the startled visitor and relaxed his fist. He wouldn't need physical violence to intimidate this one.

"Hello, Nigma, we were just talking about you."

* * *

The Joker was having a truly spectacular day. Sure, his breakfast hadn't been fit for a fly, but ever since then it had been smooth sailing. Maybe this was justice for having to endure the Arkham food. Choking down that crap had to buy anyone oodles of good karma, and the Joker wasn't just any plain old anyone.

Riding high on his hijacking of the karmic wheel, the Joker felt no need to control his impulses any longer. He pushed off with his feet and sent the expensive leather office chair into a wild spin. Laughing madly, the clown whirled around like a top. The room spun so quickly the colors blurred and the Joker laughed harder.

"Don't get dizzy and puke on the floor," Black Mask muttered, knowing the Joker would ignore the comment even if he heard it.

The chair eventually slowed and the room stopped looking like an impressionist watercolor painting. The Joker considered spinning again, but noticed how impatient his new henchmen were getting. Maybe they were all getting antsy for a turn in the magical chair of infinite pleasure.

"Anybody else want a ride?" the Joker asked.

"No. We want to hear what your grand plan is so we can get back to our lives," Black Mask said.

"Why? Your lives are _so_ boring. You have this chair and you never play with it. The opportunities you've squandered!"

"Give me a break."

"Fine. Do you want to know why I bothered to break you out of Arkham? Why I didn't just leave you in your cells and go on my merry way?"

"Because you wanted us to kill the guards," Zsasz said, absently rubbing at the two raw slashes just below his ribs.

"In your case, yeah, pretty much," the Joker admitted. He hadn't intended to include Zsasz in his master plan, but since the psychopath had tagged along, the Joker wasn't going to ignore free help. Especially if he could get said free help to spoon someone else to death.

The Joker turned to the two men who played more essential roles in his plan. Black Mask, who owned the chair the Joker was currently in love with, had earned his freedom by promising the clown firepower. And the use of his posh lair as a temporary headquarters. And the right to treat his furniture like amusement park rides.

Great White Shark was lounging in his own chair and had his feet propped on up Black Mask's desk. He hadn't been able to relax in this position in years, not since he'd been exposed as the biggest financial criminal in the history of capitalism. He didn't know what the clown wanted him for, and he didn't really care, as long as it didn't put his pale blue hide at risk.

"As for you, here's the plan. I've got two people I want to kill. I want to kill them really, really, really, _really_ badly," the Joker said.

When the Joker didn't elaborate, Black Mask sighed with disgust and played the clown's game. "Who are they?"

"Glad you asked! It's Batman and the Scarecrow."

"You can't be serious." Warren White lowered his feet and fixed the Joker with an incredulous stare.

"No, I can be. I just don't enjoy it," the Joker replied.

"You know what I mean. Batman and the Scarecrow? The Bat must have knocked the final screw loose when he was thrashing you. There's no way I'm getting involved in that mess.

The Joker hadn't expected his plan to be this ill-received and he hadn't expected the Great White Sissy-Boy to be his main detractor. Asides from grabbing White and throwing him out the window—which was still a viable option if nothing else panned out—there had to be some way to deal with him. The ungrateful, lipless freak owed the Joker, damn it!

"Alright, alright, I might have been over-ambitious. How about we just go after the one stuffed with straw?" The Joker didn't bother relaying his confidence that, to save the Scarecrow's life, the Bat would almost surely make an appearance. He wanted to keep it a surprise.

Taking Batman out of the equation pacified the Shark and he dropped his protests. He was alright with killing the Scarecrow; he figured he might even enjoy it. In the old days, back when White still had a nose and all his fingers, he'd had a bad encounter with the Scarecrow. In the name of research—and a sadistic propensity for hearing people scream—Crane had stabbed a fork through White's hand. White had never gotten the opportunity to pay back the favor.

"Out of curiosity, why do you want the Scarecrow dead?" Black Mask asked.

"Because he wouldn't let me use him as a human shield and he sucks at shopping."

"Works for me."

With his motives known, the Joker saw no reason to delay any longer. He scooted his chair over to the desk and motioned for everyone to gather close. It was time to hand out the assignments and get the ball rolling.

* * *

Dr. House, of the appropriately named TV show _House_, is a terminally grumpy, scathingly sarcastic, limping drug-addicted genius. He likes to hit people with his cane.

Charles Fuller is one of the dumbest criminals of all time. He tried to cash a forged check for 360 billion dollars.

Alien clowns cocooned their victims in cotton candy in the horror/comedy movie _Killer Klowns from Outer Space_.

Sophocles is famous for the plays _Oedipus Rex _and _Antigone_. Aristophanes wrote a play called _Lysistrata_ in which women refused to have sex until their men stop warring.


	14. You Hit Like a Girl!

Want to know why this chapter is _muy tarde? _My bloody idiotic dog chewed more than half the keys from my keyboard and it took a week to get them replaced. Ah, the joys of pet ownership...

In cheerier news, thanks for the reviews! I noticed I've got a question to answer, so here it goes:

To Hush2.0: the Scarecrow from _However You Celebrate _and _Fun with Ouijas _is definitely the same one as in the _Nerd_ stories. As for my other Scarecrow-related stuff, I'm not really sure, honestly.

* * *

Before Nigma could regret his decision, Crane grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him into the house. Ivy slammed the door behind him. Nigma tried to dig his heels into the carpet, and managed to slow down Crane momentarily. A harsh jerk made the Riddler stumble forward and put an end to his resistance. He didn't want to shame himself by tripping over his own feet and landing face down on the floor, not when there were witnesses who would never let him forget his clumsiness.

"This roughness really isn't necessary," the Riddler protested as Crane dragged him into the kitchen.

"If I let you go now, you'll run for the door. I have no faith whatsoever in you, Nigma, or in your spineless ways," Crane replied.

"I won't run."

"I know you won't." Crane forced the Riddler to sit down at the table.

With nowhere left to go and no escape unless he planned to fight the Scarecrow and Poison Ivy—which he knew would result in him being mulched into terrified fertilizer—the Riddler was resigned. He had been far too altruistic, and now he was going to pay for it. He should have left well enough alone, should have slunk off to his own lair and began tinkering with his riddles and his Bat-traps, but he hadn't and now he was stuck like a mammoth in La Brea.

"Two questions, Nigma. One: how did you find us? Two: what are you doing here?" Crane asked.

"It was so simple even _you should be able to figure it out, Crane," the Riddler replied._

Crane leaned down and brought his face so close to Nigma's that they were able to see the capillaries in each other's eyes. The Riddler refused to meet Crane's intense glare and tried to turn his head away. Crane was having none of that and seized the Riddler by the throat.

"Unless you're curious to discover what death by fear toxin overdose feels like, you will answer my questions and you will _not insult my intelligence. Now, you pitiful little puzzle-maker, don't make me ask you again," Crane threatened._

The Riddler's strong—some would say overactive—sense of self-preservation kicked on and he decided antagonizing Jonathan Crane was not a sport of which he would partake.

"Unless you've been living in the Paleolithic Age, and I know you haven't so kindly stop strangling me, you know the Joker bid Arkham a rather spectacular farewell. He was kind enough to share his good fortune."

Here Crane butted in. "I saw the people he released. Murderers, man-eating lizards, predators, real distractions for the guards. You fit exactly none of those descriptions."

"I may have begged, cajoled and made promises I never intended to keep." Crane couldn't say he was surprised by Nigma's confession.

"And once you had your freedom, you came running here. How did you know I was here and what possessed you to come?" Crane asked.

"I didn't come _directly _here. I'll have you know I risked my life to follow—"

"I don't care what errands you ran. Get to the point."

Nigma reached into his jacket pocket—he hadn't been able to assemble a proper costume and had been forced to snatch an unattended forest green blazer from the back of a café chair—and produced a Smartphone. Crane tore the phone from the Riddler's hand.

"You _idiot! These devices have GPS! When the phone's owner reports it stolen, it will be traced here!" Crane snarled._

Smirking despite the threat of strangulation, Nigma retrieved the phone and removed its back. The battery was gone. Crane, realizing he'd been tricked into acting like an ass, felt embarrassment creep into him. Anger closely pursued the embarrassment and Crane had to tamp down the impulse to force-feed the Riddler his pilfered super phone.

"Prior to removing the battery and rendering the phone untraceable, I made good use of the 4G network."

Crane was sick of delays and Nigma's refusal to give any straight answers. "Stop trying to sell me the phone and explain how it led you here."

"I performed a quick Internet search of recently purchased real-estate, found a location that listed a greenhouse as a feature, and the rest should be obvious."

"A greenhouse would have found Poison Ivy. How did you know I was here?"

"I deduced you were with Harley, since she does tend to cling." At this, Ivy nodded her head. When it came to clinging, the only thing better at it than Harley was the strangler fig.

Nigma continued, "You, being anti-social enough to make a hermit look like an extrovert, would never tolerate the clinging. Even Harley is insightful enough to realize this, so she'd seek out her best friend. In some misplaced display of pity, she'd drag you along."

The Riddler didn't add that, judging from the video he'd seen of a very beaten Scarecrow flipping off the paparazzi, Crane had been in no condition to resist Harley's whims. Nigma knew pushing Crane too far would be deadly. It was oh-so-tempting to ruffle Crane's feathers, but Crane's hand was still lingering on his vulnerable throat.

"That's one questioned answered, at least. Now tell me why you came," Crane ordered.

"To save your life," Nigma replied.

Crane actually burst into genuine laughter. "_You are going to save __my life? You're not even able to plan a simple convenience store robbery without leaving Batman a riddle that leads him right to you. You're a masterpiece of self-destruction."_

That hurt Nigma's beloved ego so badly that he decided to keep his secrets. Crane—no matter how much the Riddler enjoyed his intellect—was not worth the insults. If the Scarecrow was so sure of himself, then he could face his fate blind. He'd never survive—there wasn't a gambler alive who would place so much as a dime on Crane—but that was not Edward Nigma's problem. He'd already risked his skin by going behind the Joker's back, and he would do no more for Crane.

"Then you obviously don't need anything else from me. Let me go," the Riddler said.

"Nigma, stop pouting and say what you need to say," Ivy said. She suspected that if she didn't step in and sooth the hurt feelings, Crane would do something he'd regret.

"Fine. But only if he lets go of my throat."

"Jonathan, let him go."

Without any sort of protest or smart remark, Crane released the Riddler and stepped away from him. Nigma was too sharp not to notice the total obedience. Ivy had at least some influence over Crane, though how she'd ever managed to domesticate him, Nigma had no idea. He did, however, intend to find out.

"What lacks a nose, is covered in scars, grins, and wears a permanent mask?" the Riddler asked. He'd been dying to spring a riddle on Crane, and now was the perfect time to do it.

Crane had never heard a worse, more senseless riddle in his life. It made that accursed 'why is a raven like a writing deck?' rubbish seem perfectly logical. That had an answer—or several, Crane could never bring himself to remember—but there was no way what Nigma had just asked had any sensible answer. Nothing in the world even came close to fitting that description.

"I haven't a clue and I am not in the mood for riddles," Crane replied.

"You're not even trying," the Riddler complained.

"No, I'm not, and I don't intend to. Tell me the answer and then tell me the real reason you're here to torment me."

"The answer to the riddle is the reason I'm here."

"You came to the middle of nowhere to tell me riddles about scars and noses? You have lost your mind entirely."

Ivy was getting more than a little fed up with the posturing and displays of dominance. If she wanted to see two males act like morons, she'd turn on Animal Planet and watch elephant seals gouge each other.

"In plain, simple English, explain the riddle," Ivy said.

Since nobody was going to play his game, the Riddler relented. "It's the group of lunatics coming to kill you."

"What?" Crane asked. The answer had only left him more nonplussed.

"I must say, I'm a little disappointed."

"Shove it and explain better."

"Disassemble the riddle. What lunatic grins?"

"The Joker."

"Correct. Now, what lunatic lacks a nose?"

"I'd like to say Voldemort, but I assume you mean a real person. Great White Shark. Black Mask wears the permanent mask and Zsasz's penchant for self-mutilation makes him the scarred one. I still fail to grasp the significance. They can't _all be coming to kill me."_

"They can and they are. I may have listened covertly, but it was impossible to miss the part where the Joker said he wanted to kill you, and I quote, 'really, really, really, really badly'."

Though he hadn't thought it was possible, apparently there were fates worse than having the Joker live with you, which was itself a fate worse than death. Crane didn't know how his brain handled the sheer horror of this new information without shorting out. He half-expected to go instantly and irreparably insane, like someone unfortunate enough to see Cthulhu or Dagon. Surely not even those two could approach the undiluted evil that was the Joker. Neither Cthulhu nor Dagon sent their victims shopping for New York Super Fudge Chunk, after all.

"Are you alright? Jonathan?" Ivy asked, alarmed by Crane's pallor and expression.

"I'm doomed," Crane replied.

"That is not true! This doesn't change anything."

Crane pulled a chair away from the table and sunk down in it. He bowed his head and covered his face with his hands. He was going to die, probably in some spectacularly gruesome spectacle, and many of the most powerful costumed villains in Gotham were going to see it happen. See it? Hell, they'd likely have a hand in it! The Joker hadn't banded them together so they could sit around and gossip while the clown did all the wet work. Knowing the clown as he did, Crane surmised the underlings would get a chance to torture him, and then the Joker would torture him, and then if he was lucky, he'd be put out of his misery.

The Riddler observed Crane's despair with keen interest. He'd seen the Scarecrow angry plenty of times—a man like Crane did tend to get snappy after five straight losses at chess—but he'd never seen Crane exhibit such emotional vulnerability. He doubted if anyone else ever had. Crane was more likely to drive his psychologists insane than to become sentimental during therapy.

Ivy was not going to accept Crane's fatalistic attitude. She stormed forward, pried his hands away from his face, and refused to release them even when he struggled.

"You are _not_ going to die! If we have to, we'll kill the whole circus along with the clown," Ivy said.

"We don't stand a chance. They're going to murder me and commit any number of obscenities against my corpse."

Ivy drew back her fist and punched Crane hard enough to topple him from the chair. He sprawled out on the kitchen floor like a KO'd boxer. After a moment, he managed to sit up and bring a hand to the bright red mark on his cheek.

"Feel better?" Ivy asked. Her fist was ready for another go if he didn't.

"Oddly enough, yes."

* * *

While Crane was getting the sense pounded back into him, Bruce Wayne was trying not to let the news get to him. Nightfall was still hours away, so the Bat couldn't even begin the monumental task ahead of him. All he could do was pace, sit for a bit, get distressed, and pace again. Alfred already claimed to see a worn path in the carpet.

As he was getting ready for the pacing part of the cycle, something came on the television that froze Bruce in his chair. A breaking news banner announced the studio had received some amateur video of Killer Croc attacking a small boat. And that parents were encouraged to shoo their young, impressionable children from the room.

Dreading the worst, Bruce stared at the screen. The amateur video, which must have come from a video camera and not a cell phone because it was so clear, began to play.

The video showed a boat floating along peacefully enough somewhere in Gotham's harbor. Two young men—probably too young to be enjoying the beers in the cooler on the floor of the boat—were eating sandwiches while their friend filmed. They looked perfectly at ease.

Then one man dropped his sandwich and began to scream. He pointed desperately out past the cameraman. The cameraman turned around to see what his friend was throwing a fit over, and the video panned out over the water.

Killer Croc's scaly arms grasped the stern of the boat. He attempted to haul himself aboard, though he was so heavy the boat threatened to capsize. By now, all the boaters were hysterical and the camera swung wildly.

Showing remarkable ingenuity, the boaters, still screaming, began to fight back. One grabbed an oar and whacked at Croc's snout. The other pulled cans of beer from the cooler and began to hurl them at the reptilian creature. When he was out of cans and Croc was stilling clinging to the boat like the world's biggest barnacle, he went digging around in the ice-filled cooler.

It was impossible to make out precisely what he'd grabbed—the camera was shaking too much—but Bruce was pretty sure it was a bottle. The boater, armed with only his bottle, darted forward, towards the snapping jaws and clutching claws of Killer Croc. His friend behind the camera screamed for him not to do it.

The boater upended his bottle directly into Croc's slit-pupil eyes. With a bellow of rage and pain, he released the boat and clawed at his face. The two men not carrying a camera took this opportunity to grab the oars and paddle for their lives.

Before the clip ended, Bruce distinctly heard the hero's euphoric voice shout "hot sauce!" Bruce shut off the television and headed for the kitchen to search for Tabasco. Even if he couldn't enter Gotham until darkness lent him cover, he could begin to gather new and inventive weapons to make the night ahead a little less horrible.

* * *

AN:

The La Brea tar pits have trapped a wide variety of prehistoric critters, and still get the occasional squirrel.

Why is a raven like a writing desk? is a riddle from _Alice in Wonderland_. There are several proposed answers, such as 'Poe wrote on both' and 'both have inky quills.' Lewis Carroll, however, may never have intended the riddle to have any answer.

Cthulhu and Dagon are both Lovecraft monsters so horrible a person could be driven insane just by looking at them.

And though it is my policy not to ask for reviews, could you shiny, happy people bump the count to 100? Pretty please?


	15. Manly Displays of Manliness

Thanks for the reviews! You reliable, marvelous people got that count over 100 and I am pleased. Nice, nice, very nice.

To Hush2.0: I certainly hope you aren't dead. Anyway, here's the new chapter. And as for your requests, would a one-shot suffice? I don't think I could do a multi-chapter fic about Killer Moth. Even I have my limits...

* * *

Now that he no longer felt like curling up in the fetal position, withdrawing from the world, and dying of neglect, Crane was able to get back in his seat and face Nigma's news like a man. Or like a woman, since Ivy hadn't turned into a boneless, gutless puddle of ooze and he had.

"I apologize for that. Nigma, have you got any more information? Do you know when I should expect my executioners?" Crane asked.

Nigma shook his head. He'd lingered at the door to the Joker's meeting far longer than he'd intended, and everything pertinent that he'd learned had already been conveyed. He wished he had more to offer because he didn't want to see the only man he could have an intelligent conversation with butchered like Catherine Eddowes.

"There's nothing else, Crane. I suppose I can wish you good luck. Or suggest a good third-world country you could flee to. Bhutan's not a bad choice; only geography teachers even know of its existence."

"He's not running away to Bhutan," Ivy said.

"I wouldn't make it out of the country, anyway. I'm on the terrorist no-fly list," Crane added. "Though, if all else fails, I don't think even the clown could break into Guantanamo Bay."

"You're not running away to Guantanamo Bay, either."

The Riddler shrugged. Personally, if four infamous, insane murderers were after him, he'd debase himself in front of Muammar Gaddafi, Kim Jong-Il, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, or any other tin-pot dictator who could possibly offer him shelter. Facing the ire of all of Western civilization was nowhere near as dangerous as facing the Joker on a mission and the depraved trio he'd conned into joining him.

Sure that he was seeing the last of Jonathan Crane—unless there was a public wake or the Joker hung his mutilated body from a bridge—the Riddler decided it was time to leave. He had a well-honed sixth sense that told him the excrement was about to hit the air conditioning, and he wanted to be far away, hunkered down in his own lair when it happened. The Riddler rose from his seat and managed two steps towards the door before Crane leapt at him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Crane demanded.

"I haven't quite decided. Metropolis is nice this time of year," Nigma replied.

Crane had grabbed him by the arm, and the Riddler wondered if he could shirk off his jacket and make it to the door before he was caught. He doubted it. Crane had longer legs, and even if the Riddler were to take him by surprise, he'd be able to make up the distance very quickly.

"You aren't going to Metropolis."

"No? Then I suppose I'll take the bus to Chicago. Does that sound any better?"

"Let me rephrase that: you aren't going anywhere. You are going to stay here, and you are going to help me avoid a bloody demise."

Nigma stepped back and yanked his arm from Crane's grip. As soon as he was free, he threw his hands up in front of him, as though warding off an attack.

"I am doing no such thing. I am neutral in this conflict," the Riddler said.

"Neutral parties don't conduct espionage and then report on what they heard. You are not neutral; you decided that for yourself," Crane refuted.

"I was doing you a favor!"

"And now you're going to do me a few more."

"Absolutely not! Ivy, please," Nigma beseeched.

Sometimes, it was best to let things sort themselves out. Ivy couldn't decide whether this was one of those times, or if this was a time to intervene before someone died. She sympathized with Nigma, and believed he had already done more than could be expected of him, little narcissist that he was. Telling Crane to stand down, however, would only create a new world of conflict. He had been feeling helpless, and controlling the Riddler made him feel better. If Ivy told him to release his new toy, he'd either turn sulky at her for hurting his ego, or he'd fall back into the unsightly, pitiful state she'd slapped him out of. Ivy wanted to see neither of those things happen.

"Jonathan, instead of threatening him, why don't you discuss it diplomatically? Maybe you can convince him to help," Ivy said.

"I can convince him easily enough."

"Diplomatically. Do you know what that means?"

"Saying the nastiest things in the nicest way."

That actually wasn't too bad of a definition, though it wasn't helping the situation any. Ivy told Crane to tune down his snide remarks and have a civil, non-threatening conversation with the Riddler. Grudgingly, the Riddler took a seat and faced Crane. Judging by the looks on their faces, a meeting between George W. Bush and the ghost of Saddam Hussein would have been more likely to produce positive results.

"This is a waste of time. As I said thirty seconds ago, I am washing my hands of your unfortunate mess. I have done all I am willing to do," the Riddler said.

"And as I said thirty seconds ago, I'm not done with you yet and any attempt to subvert me will end poorly for you."

"You're being passive-aggressive. Instead of taking your fear and anger out on the Joker, you're taking it out on me."

"I'm not afraid!"

"It must have been low blood sugar that floored you, then."

Diplomatic ties instantly dissolved and the Scarecrow and Riddler descended into an all-out war. Crane swung first and Nigma barely avoided having an unwanted rhinoplasty. The Riddler ducked beneath Crane's punch and then threw himself under the table. He crawled to the other side of the table before reemerging and putting the furniture between the seething Scarecrow and himself. Separated by the barrier, the Riddler wasted no time before trying to escape. Crane was between him and the door, but the house had plenty of windows.

"Get back here!" Crane shouted to the Riddler's retreating back.

Crane skirted the table and gave chase, all the while threatening the Riddler with increasingly painful physical and psychological harm. Ivy, utterly fed up with the way Nigma and Crane were behaving, considering teaching them both a lesson. Then she let apathy get the better of her. Even paralyzing them both with a kiss and tying them together wasn't likely to change anything. They were both too willful and proud for anything but the most drastic of actions to have any effect at all. There simply wasn't time, not with the Joker and his goon squad running around, to reshape the egomaniacal pair.

The Riddler reached the living room and bolted for the window. It was unlatched and he was able to push it up far enough to allow his body to slip through. He took a moment to knock out the screen before shimmying through the window.

Nigma was at a crucial tipping point—half of him was outside while his legs still dangled in the house—when Crane reached him. The Riddler tried to squirm faster but suddenly found his feet being yanked backwards. He clutched at the sides of the window and kicked at Crane.

"I'm going to break your legs and make you live in the shed," Crane hissed as he pulled on Nigma's ankles.

"Jonathan, please!"

"Begging will get you nowhere but feel free to continue anyway."

"No, stop licking me! Gah!"

That made Crane pause. He certainly wasn't licking the Riddler. Ergo, someone else was. A laugh-like bark provided a solid clue.

Crane let go of the Riddler's ankles, and the villain fell through the window and hit the ground. Immediately, the laughing notched up considerably. Nigma's whining and shouting increased proportionately.

"Help! Crane, you can't be this heartless! They're mauling me to death!"

Crane poked his head out the window. What was going on below was not some savage kill from a National Geographic special. It was more like two large dogs playing with a new friend—a friend who just happened to be cynophobic.

Harley was inevitably drawn by her hyenas' laughter and the Riddler's hysteria. She hurried over to see Bud and Lou sniffing, jostling, and slobbering upon their reluctant playmate. Said reluctant playmate was making a terrible racket and was writhing around and flailing in an inefficient attempt to escape the hyenas' attention. The Riddler still hadn't figured out that it was his crying and wriggling that was actually attracting Bud and Lou and encouraging them to butt him with their snouts.

"Eddie! What are you doin' here?" Harley asked when she saw who it was Bud and Lou were playing with.

"Call them off! Please, call them off!" the Riddler pleaded.

"Babies, come to Momma!"

Bud and Lou gave the Riddler a final sniff before trotting over to Harley and plopping down at her feet. Free of the beasts, the Riddler got to his feet unsteadily. His clothing was now rumpled and grass-stained, he smelled like dog, and, worst of all, he'd been slathered with disgusting saliva, and lots of it. He needed a shower, or at the very least some hand sanitizer.

Grimacing at the horrendous, germ-infested state he'd been reduced to, the Riddler attempted to right things as best he could. He brushed his jacket with his hands—which did absolutely nothing to erase the grass stains or the patches of hyena drool—and tried to pat down his hair. Despite his ministrations, he still looked like he'd been dragged through the neighborhood by Clifford the big, red dog.

Harley had to bite her lip to keep from giggling at the Riddler's obnoxious hair and wrinkled clothing. She knew the Riddler would only turn taciturn and unpleasant if he was laughed at, and she wanted to talk to him. She was happy to have visitors, and she wanted to know what Eddie was up to and how he had even found Ivy's home. It wasn't like Red's address was in the phonebook and if the Riddler had tracked her down, it would have to be over something important.

"So…how've you been?" Harley asked

"Wretched. And I was just leaving, so if you'll kindly excuse me." Nigma walked past Harley without a glance back at the house.

"Harley, don't let him go! I'm not finished with him yet," Crane said.

"He sounds pretty mad. Were you havin' a fight or somethin'?"

"Or something," Nigma muttered as he put some pep in his step. He knew he should have parked closer. He should have anticipated the need for a hasty escape.

"I wanna hear about it!" Harley said. "Tell me, tell me, tell me!"

It was like living with a four-year-old who wanted to know all the secrets of life, the universe, and everything. Harley bounced around, trying to wheedle information from the Riddler, who was playing the part of a tightly closed clamshell. He only wanted to get away before Crane came tearing out of the house. Harley was being the cheeriest roadblock he'd ever seen.

"What were you fightin' about? Are you still mad at Professor Crane over that question on _Who Wants to be a Millionaire_? 'Cause that was like last year and it's a little weird to still be mad you lost."

"It wasn't over _Who Wants to be a Millionaire_! I came here to tell him something incredibly important, and instead of gratitude, I receive threats against my life! When they get their hands on him—and I'm sure they will—I hope they make it _hurt_!" Nigma shouted.

Still inside but rapidly approaching the door, Crane heard Nigma's taunts. He ground his teeth together. _Someone_ was going to get hurt, that was for sure.

"Wait a sec. Is someone comin' after the Professor? Who is it?" Harley asked. She kept stride with the Riddler, who was now jogging.

The Riddler debated spilling everything to Harley. If she knew the Joker had escaped from Arkham, she'd likely shriek with unadulterated joy and then seek him out like a homing pigeon. That would at least get her out of his way. On the other hand, reuniting Harley with her beloved maniac would be, without a sliver of doubt, the final nail in Jonathan Crane's coffin. Harley would, with only the barest prompting, tell the Joker exactly where she'd been, and who had kept her company. After that, it would be all over for Crane except the actual suffering and dying.

Before the Riddler could decide just how much guilt he'd suffer if he squealed, Crane threw open the front door. The Riddler's survival instincts told him to shut his mouth and run for it, so he obeyed. Leaving Harley confused in his wake, Nigma scurried.

"The little bastard," Crane growled.

Like a cheetah hunting an antelope, Crane sprinted after the Riddler, who had managed to get quite a lead. Crane's ungainly build wasn't particularly useful for fighting off the Bat, but it did make him a strong runner. He easily shortened the gap between him and his puzzling quarry.

Nigma realized he'd never make it. Damn his pride! If he hadn't been so concerned about appearances, if it hadn't been _pink_, if it hadn't had a little basket welded to the back! Damn his pride and damn his choice of stolen vehicles!

Nigma's self-flagellation was abruptly cut off when he was tackled and driven to the ground. He considered resisting, but the knee pressed against his back held him firmly. Since he couldn't do anything physically except squirm, he tried to talk his way out of trouble.

"I didn't mean it, Crane, I'm sorry, please don't kill me, I don't want you to die, I was angry, Jesus!" Nigma exclaimed it all with one stupendous breath.

Now it was Crane's turn to weigh restraint against satisfaction. He could easily beat Nigma's head into the lawn until he was coughing up dandelions and night crawlers. That would be fun and cathartic. Or he could give the Riddler one last chance.

"I'm not going to kill you if you agree to my terms," Crane said.

"Yes!"

"Good."

Crane removed himself from Nigma's back and the Riddler warily got to his feet. He still expected to be attacked. It was un-Scarecrow-like for Crane to forgive and forget so easily.

"What are those terms I just agreed to?" Nigma asked.

Before Crane could reply, Harley, closely trailed by her pair of mutts, stomped onto the scene. Her hands were planted on her hips and she did not look like a happy harlequin.

"I wanna know what's goin' on and I wanna know _now_!"

Crane draped an arm around the Riddler's shoulder and pulled him close, as though they were the best buddies in the world. Nigma tried not to shudder. If Crane was hamming it up like this, he had something devious planned for later.

"I've got excellent news, Harley. Eddie is going to stay with us," Crane said.

"Okay, but he said somebody was comin' to hurt you, Professor. And then he ran away and didn't tell me who it was."

Nigma nodded fervently. "Yes, I had to tell Jonathan to be on the watch for…the IRS!"

Harley winced. "The IRS? Even Mister J's afraid of them."

"Truly a terrifying entity. I should invent a fear toxin that triggers the subject's brain into seeing IRS officials everywhere."

"That's too evil," Harley scolded.

Crane shrugged. He did like the idea and, always assuming he wasn't murdered in the coming days, wondered how difficult it would be to brew a toxin that had such an acute effect.

The IRS was too unpleasant a topic to end the conversation on, so Harley switched back to the announcement Ivy was going to get yet another freeloading lodger. She wanted to immediately introduce the Riddler to Mel. Crane, smiling an evil smile, relinquished his hold on the Riddler and shoved him towards Harley.

"Eddie's dying to meet Mel," Crane said.

"Let's go see him, then! You wanna come, Professor?" Harley asked.

"No, I've seen enough of Mel lately. He's best enjoyed in small doses."

Harley dragged the Riddler off towards the greenhouse. Once they were gone, Crane began to search the area. Nigma had had a specific destination in mind and Crane wanted to find out what that destination was. He had an educated guess: a vehicle. Nigma hadn't walked all the way from Gotham and he hadn't taken the bus, either. Whatever he had driven had to be stashed nearby.

A healthy clump of dense bushes—no doubt cared for by Ivy—served as the logical place to hide a getaway car. Crane looked around the back of the bushy tangle and spotted the Riddler's vehicle. It was impossible to miss. It was neon pink and looked like a life-sized version of something Barbie would ride.

It was a Vespa scooter. Complete with a shopping basket and, dear God, a Hello Kitty decal.

Crane had enough blackmail material on the Riddler to last well into the next millennium.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Catherine Eddowes was a victim of Jack the Ripper. He removed her kidney and sent it to the police.

Bhutan is a tiny nation located in the Himalayas.

Let's make analogies like on the SATs! Muammar Gaddafi: Libya as Kim Jong-Il: North Korea as Mahmoud Ahmadinejad: Iran. If you did understood that, congrats, you're going to college!

"The excrement hit the air conditioning" is a phrase from the novel _Hocus Pocus_ by Kurt Vonnegut.

"Diplomacy is to do and say the nastiest things in the nicest ways." – Isaac Goldberg.

Cynophobia is the fear of dogs.

For bonus points, find the name of a book written by Douglas Adams.


	16. Forever Alone

Thanks for the reviews!

To Vancomycin: I believe you on the unreal numbers and all. As someone who's taken calculus, I can appreciate the absurdity of math.

Also, the Douglas Adams book in the last chapter was, as several people got, "Life, the Universe, and Everything."

And, as Professor Farnsworth would say, good news, everyone! I'm finished with college for the summer, so just maybe the updates will hurry the hell up!

* * *

This was the life. A comfy chair, a desk made from the wood of endangered rainforest species, completely competent minions, and free booze. The free booze hadn't initially been part of the deal, but it turned out Black Mask had a fondness for scotch and kept a bottle of it in his desk drawer. Far be it from the Joker to deny himself the pleasure of another man's expensive alcohol.

"How's it going, Fishy?" the Joker asked as he sipped his scotch and scooted his chair across the floor.

"I'm not going to answer to Fishy," White replied.

"Would you rather be…Esmeralda? You look like an Esmeralda. How's it going, Esmeralda? Any leads?"

"I can't work like this," the Shark muttered.

"Could you work any better in the closet? Because that's where you're going if you don't find me my Scarecrow."

Warren White bared his teeth—not that he could ever do anything else with them, as he had no lips—and tried to block out both the clown's voice and the obnoxious noises he made as he went sliding around in his stolen chair. The Joker really was an impossible man to work for or with. He made impossible demands, set impossible deadlines, and then proved to be as loud and grating as an air raid siren.

"Did you find him yet?" The Joker wheeled his chair over to Warren's side and then looked over his shoulder to make sure the toothy villain wasn't actually watching porn on company time.

"No, I did not find him yet! How do you expect me to, in five minutes, find a man who has no permanent address and no close associates when he can hide in the largest city in the United States?"

"Did you check his Facebook page? Maybe he updated his location."

The Great White Shark shoved his chair away from the computer and headed for the door. The Joker, still seated, pursued him.

"Hey, I got you out of Arkham and now you've got to fulfill your end of the bargain!" the Joker said.

"I'll find the Scarecrow, but I'll do it the old-fashioned way. I've got friends in low places, as I'm sure you know, and maybe one of them has seen something interesting in the past few days," White replied.

The Joker did approve of a good shakedown, so he let the Shark go. With the office now empty—and all witnesses gone—the Joker hopped on the abandoned computer, closed out whatever White had been doing, and set about completely wrecking the Scarecrow's name. There was nothing like humiliating a man before you actually got around to the business of physically destroying him.

A fake birthday and e-mail address later, Jonathan "Spooky" Crane liked little boys, Farmville, Nazism, and every teenage singing monstrosity from 1990 to the present. The Joker cackled with sadistic glee before seeding the Internet with news that the Scarecrow had not only joined a social networking site, but that he was looking for neighbors to tend his sheep and water his rutabaga.

* * *

The Riddler was not having a good day. He had been shanghaied by a man who would be dead in a few days (though he was careful not to mention this prediction to the temperamental dead man), he had nearly been consumed by an enormous Venus flytrap, and now he was forced to watch a spiky-haired midget fight some sort of purple lizard monster. And, to make that mental torture even worse, the _adult_ who was subjecting him to the purple lizard monster was cheering for the midget like a drunken football fan during the Super Bowl. The Riddler felt embarrassed for Harley, even if she didn't have the decency to be embarrassed for herself.

"Harley, will you _please_ turn that crap off? I can't hear myself think over all the explosions and grunting," Ivy said.

"But Red, I need to see what's gonna happen on the next episode," Harley whined.

"Nothing important. Now turn it off and make sure your pets aren't digging up my foxgloves. They won't bloom this year, or ever, if they're torn up by Bud and Lars."

"Lou." For some reason, Red just couldn't ever remember the second hyena's name, no matter how many times she was corrected. Harley was beginning to suspect her best friend didn't care very much about her beloved Babies.

Harley didn't feel like pushing the issue right then, so she handed Nigma the TV remote and headed outside to check up on the hyenas. Nigma wasted no time getting as far away from cartoons as he could. He settled on a pitifully one-sided game of Family Feud. Yes, a sharp six-year-old could have easily cleared the board without earning a single strike, but at least there were no lizard monsters.

While Nigma correctly identified what feature about Brad Pitt one-hundred surveyed women found sexiest, Crane and Ivy sat in the kitchen and stared at each other. There were certainly enough things they would have liked to say to each other, but neither wanted to go first and neither was sure it was safe for the Riddler to become savvy to their plans. Neither Crane nor Ivy particularly trusted the Riddler, even if he had given his word to stick around and make himself useful. He loved his own hide too much, and there was no doubt that, should the Joker show up at the front door armed with a shotgun, Nigma would be suddenly unavailable.

Ivy was the first to find the silence unbearable. "Alright, so we've made a reluctant ally. Now what do we do with him? There's got to be something he can do asides from sit in there and watch TV."

"He's the undisputed king of getting himself caught. While he is capable of building some masterful traps, he'll have to be supervised the whole time unless we want him to instill an utterly pointless escape hatch or Sudoku puzzle kill switch," Crane said.

"Do you think the Joker would be smart enough to activate a Sudoku kill switch?"

"The Joker plays an idiot so convincingly he probably fools himself sometimes, but I've learned to never underestimate him, especially when his life is on the line."

"Then we'll need to babysit Nigma from start to finish on all of his projects. Maybe we should hear what those projects might be. Why don't you get him, Jonathan?"

From the living room, the Riddler snorted at the idiotic answer a woman had just provided. When her sister answered with an even worse response, the Riddler grew more contemptuous. Before his ego could fly through time and television and punch Richard Dawson, Crane ordered him into the kitchen.

The Riddler took a seat at the table—the seat farthest from Crane—and waited to hear why he had been summoned during the triple points round. Crane decided to lay his cards on the table.

"I don't intend to die without a fight, and you, at the risk of inflating your sense of self-importance, can rig an impressive defensive line," Crane said.

"I'm glad you've finally come to appreciate my genius." The smugness radiating off of Nigma could have powered a significant portion of Gotham.

"A genius wouldn't drop a trail of breadcrumbs behind him for the Bat to follow," Crane muttered.

The Riddler heard Crane's remark and decided to ignore it. Crane had more in mind than ego-stoking, and the Riddler was starving for any kind of stimulation that didn't involve the television or Ivy's mutant, carnivorous plants. Wherever Crane was taking this, the Riddler was willing to follow along.

"You are going to turn this house into something less than clown-friendly."

"And how would you like me to do that? Hang a piano above the front door and drop it on the Joker's head?" Nigma inquired.

That little stunt might have, in the post-apocalyptic world, earned the Riddler zombie kill of the week, but in Ivy's kitchen, it only served to piss Crane off. Crane wasn't trying to catch a cartoon roadrunner; he was trying not to die!

"Nothing so Acme. I was thinking more along the lines of booby traps and things that could conceivably work," Crane replied.

"Why don't you just repot that beastly Venus flytrap closer to the house? Not only will it repel the Joker, I'm positive the Jehovah's Witnesses will never ring your doorbell again."

"The Jehovah's Witnesses do not concern me! Nigma, if you don't focus on the matter at hand, I will personally feed you to Mel."

"I'll be able to do you a world of good from in there."

Ivy stood up and slammed her hand against the table. Crane and Nigma froze and looked warily at her as though, next time, it wouldn't be the table that felt her wrath. Crane had already been punched by Ivy, and wasn't looking forward to experiencing it again. Nigma had seen Crane get socked upside the head, and didn't want to find out how it felt firsthand.

"If you don't stop, I'm feeding both of you to Mel! What's wrong with you? I've never seen two people who were so proud of their supposed intelligence act like such idiots! Now stop fighting, stop sniping, and start cooperating before I throw you in the cactus patch," Ivy said.

With Ivy there to serve as the heavy-handed mediator, Crane tried again to exploit the Riddler's creative abilities. In a tone he hoped was neutral and didn't express his current desire to combine Nigma and fear toxin and study the results, Crane explained his plan for badass home defenses. Dropping pianos was out, and so was planting Mel in the yard, but explosives, electronics, lethal machinery and anything else that Nigma traditionally used were welcome.

"A pleasant two-story home like this will never be Fort Knox, but I have been forced to outfit less fortifiable dwellings," Nigma said.

"Like that pet shop?" Ivy asked.

Crane had never heard the pet shop story. He supposed it had happened during one of his many stints at Arkham, where he'd been denied the newspaper for mentally torturing his fellow inmates. He asked for details.

"I was evading Gotham's pathetic excuse for law enforcement, and was unlucky enough to find myself pursued by the one officer who hasn't bloated herself on donuts. I slipped into a doorway, and discovered I had entered a pet shop. I made the best of a bad situation," Nigma said.

"It involved snakes, didn't it?" Crane asked. "You threw snakes at a female officer. How Freudian."

"Tarantulas, actually, and I didn't throw them. I rigged a trip-line that would bring the tarantulas' terrarium crashing down on the head of anyone foolish enough to follow me."

"And how did that work out for you?"

"Not all girls are afraid of spiders. And plastic terrariums aren't particularly heavy."

Crane added spiders to the list of things the Riddler would not be using in his traps. He also made a mental note to see if the pet store debacle had any security camera footage that had found its way to the Internet. Crane would pay good money to see a cop covered in hairy tarantulas tackle and handcuff the Riddler.

"The moral of that story is that, even in the most unlikely of places, there are opportunities. Crane!"

"What?" The sound of his name pulled him from his thoughts of the Riddler and the spider-cop.

"I need to see the premises, and not only the parts that want to snare me and eat me. Show me what I'm working with," Nigma said.

"I give the guided tours around here," Ivy interrupted.

"Oh, alright then."

Ivy escorted Nigma out of the room and left Crane alone. He could hear Ivy in the living room explaining what meager elements made up her entertainment system. The Riddler must have been attracted by the television, because he told her he could convert it into a bomb without disrupting its function. Ivy told him to kindly keep his bombs out of anything that Harley routinely used, lest they all end up blasted to the moon.

Crane wasn't going to spend the rest of the day sitting by himself at the table like Billy no-mates, and, despite a strong feeling of misgiving, he decided to give himself an unguided tour of the house. While he certainly knew where the kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms were, there were some rooms Ivy had only mentioned in passing. The attic and crawlspace, both of which were occupied by Ivy's exotic plants, deserved some investigation.

In the living room, Nigma was examining a potted African violet and Ivy looked like she was seconds away from prying it from his hands. Crane was able to slip past them easily enough, and headed upstairs. The gateway to the attic, he figured, would be easier to find than the crawlspace.

A foot-long length of chord hanging like a tail from the ceiling revealed the ladder that led into the attic. Crane, being a tall fellow, was able to snag the chord without issue. As he pulled the ladder down, he regretted that the Mad Hatter wasn't among the gang coming to kill him. Tetch would never be able to reach the chord, even with a stepstool, the demented little gnome that he was.

The attic, unlike all other attics on the planet, was not filled with boxes of Christmas ornaments, raccoon nests, or crap that no longer fit in the basement. Instead, a portion of it had been converted into a rectangular sandbox and the rest was clear. Low, creeping plants sprouted from the sandbox; most of the flowers, originally vibrant purple, had withered. Crane believed Ivy had told him the name of these flowers—he couldn't remember it—but he did remember she'd mentioned their blooming season had come to an end.

"This is certainly interesting. If you are killed, at least we'll have a convenient location in which to bury you."

Crane spun around to find Nigma's head and shoulders emerging from the floor. The Riddler finished his climb, and Ivy followed not far behind him. Once they were all in the attic, Nigma began to poke around, examining the contours of the roof, the height of the room, and even the depth of the sandbox.

"I must retract my earlier statement." Nigma extracted his hand from the sandbox and brushed loose grains off his hand. "You wouldn't fit in here, Crane. Your nose would protrude."

"Funny, I don't recall asking you to search for burial plots," Crane said.

"I'm preparing for all eventualities. Ivy, I've seen all I need to of your lovely attic. Show me the supply shed, if you would."

For the second time in twenty minutes, Crane was abandoned. He muttered a few choice words for Nigma under his breath and then slumped down on the edge of the sandbox. He dipped his hand into the sand, and recorded the depth. He then compared that measurement to the length of his face. Sure enough, his nose would make sandpit burial impossible.

He hated when Nigma was right. Especially when it was, literally, over his dead body.

* * *

Anyone want to guess what show Harley was watching?

The Brad Pitt question is from an actual episode of Family Feud. The number one answer: his body.

In the film _Zombieland_, a nun received the honor of "zombie kill of the week" for dropping a piano on a zombie that was chasing her.

In the Roadrunner cartoons, Wile. E. Coyote used Acme products that always failed.

Billy no-mates is a British term for someone who has no friends.


	17. A Very Broken Truce

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Crane wanted nothing to do with the Riddler, so he decided to lurk in the attic like an intrusive family of raccoons. He paced the unnaturally clean attic and found his mind going in circles just as his feet were. He fixated on dark thoughts, on his annoyance with the Riddler, on the Joker, on dying a most violent death and having a sandbox serve as his eternal resting place. It left him feeling rather pissed off.

Going in circles might have been enough to occupy the average NASCAR fan, but it did nothing to ease the growing tension in Crane's mind. He had to do something before he went insane and started trying to eat the sand and wilting flowers.

There was nothing in the attic to distract him. As much as he didn't want to venture down and run into the Riddler again, he had to take his chances. Maybe he could watch one of Harley's favorite programs and anesthetize his disgruntled brain.

Crane left the attic and sought solace in daytime programming. Nigam had been the last one to watch the television, and it was still tuned to old quiz shows. Crane frowned and hastily clicked through the channels for the single dumbest, least-thought-provoking show he could find. He skipped over a cooking show, an intervention show, a quest for Bigfoot documentary, and a show about how much it sucked to drive a truck in Alaska. Those were all too stimulating. He considered a show about pawning, until a letter signed by Thomas Jefferson was brought up. With a sigh, Crane changed the channel; where was the lowbrow hair-pulling and chair-throwing when you needed it?

Just when he was sure he'd have to watch MTV and then shoot himself, Crane found suitable garbage. It was a soap opera called _Hearts and Scalpels_. He hoped it involved scalpels cutting into hearts, but expected it to be more about sex in places that should be sterile.

Five minutes into the show, a doctor and his blonde, busty, patient—who had apparently undergone massive cardiac surgery only two days ago—were necking in her bed. Twenty minutes later, the doctor was getting frisky with a nurse, who was busty and brunette. The busty brunette nurse was apparently the doctor's girlfriend, only she was cheating on him with the janitor—who was the sexiest, most sculpted man to ever pick up a mop, apparently—while he was cheating on her with all the patients who were female and of legal age. Crane felt his brain dying in agony.

The unfaithful nurse snuck into a supply room for a romp and Crane was sure his brainstem was trying to separate itself from the rest of his gray matter. If only, he thought miserably. A detached brainstem would quickly and painlessly save him from all his troubles.

Brainstem suicide cheered him up a bit—he was the only man in history who could claim that—so he endured the rest of the despicable program. It ended with the nurse and doctor confronting each other and stethoscopes being abused, and Crane was sorry to find himself still alive.

Before another soap opera could try to take his life, Crane was forced to switch off the television. Nigma, closely followed by Poison Ivy, came in through the front door. The Riddler zeroed in on Crane, who was slouched on the couch and in a stupor, and had the gall to plop down next to him.

"Generally, television is more entertaining when it's on," the Riddler said.

"Not in my experience," Crane responded.

"Or mine," Ivy added.

Nigma shrugged. He wasn't above using television as a medium to prove his mental superiority. If Crane and Ivy had never done the same, that was their loss.

"What did your tour tell you?" Crane asked, and made no attempt to disguise the annoyance in his voice.

"I've got a great deal to do and very little with which I can work. There is potential, but I can't fulfill it with organic fertilizer. Now, if Ivy was to use inorganic fertilizer, we'd be halfway to an ANFO bomb," Nigma said.

Ivy snorted and crossed her arms. "And kill the Gulf of Mexico while I was at it?"

"No river in Gotham runs into the Mississippi River, or any of its tributaries," the Riddler responded.

"It doesn't mean fertilizer runoff into Gotham's harbor isn't harmful."

"If there's anything alive in Gotham's waterways, it's Killer Croc. He won't mind a little ammonium nitrate."

"Nigma, get on with it!" Crane snapped. Ivy and the Riddler could fight about algal blooms and Killer Croc later, once some sort of defense had been mounted.

"I can't work like this," Nigma said.

Crane's hands prepared to do some choking. He barely restrained them—he almost had to sit on them to keep them from Nigma's infuriating, scrawny neck—and gave Nigma one last chance to drop his prima donna act.

"You'll work however I tell you to work. Now what do you propose we do?" Crane asked.

"I need access to my usual materials. I can get what I need tonight and start assembling tomorrow," the Riddler said.

"Do you think I'm stupid enough to let you go? We'd never see you again."

"You were stupid enough to get yourself into this mess, Crane, so yes, I do consider you stupid enough to make another grand mistake."

It was like watching a pair or territorial tomcats hiss, flatten their ears, and then, while making the most horrendous noises known to man, roll across the lawn in a blistering ball of claws. Only instead of the lawn, it was the rug. And instead of two cats with no higher brain function, it was two self-proclaimed geniuses. Ivy figured the way to break up the conflict would be roughly the same, though.

Stepping carefully around Crane and the Riddler, Ivy walked to the kitchen. She retrieved a plastic bucket from under the sink and filled it with cold water. For an added shock, she dumped a tray of ice cubes in as well.

By virtue of being taller—and angrier—Crane had managed to get the upper hand. He had Nigma pinned to the floor, but couldn't do anything except keep him there. The Riddler wasn't much of a fighter, but he could writhe and insult with the best of them. Keeping hold of his wrists was like trying to keep hold of a slimy catfish that had somewhere learned to shout derogatory names at its attackers.

The bucket of ice water came down directly on Crane's head, soaking him thoroughly but leaving the Riddler only a little wet. Crane leapt off the Riddler. He had more pressing matters to worry about than beating Nigma's paltry brains out; an ice cube had slipped down his shirt and was lodged firmly against the middle of his back.

Crane shook the ice cube free. Then he glared at the woman who had doused him. Ivy was glaring back with twice the intensity, and Crane found himself averting his gaze.

"You're idiots, both of you! If you don't start worrying about your lives more than your precious egos, you're both going to die! Sit down and think about it for one second!" Ivy shouted.

"I have no intention of dying. The Joker doesn't even know I'm here," Nigma protested.

"She means _I'll_ kill you," Crane replied.

"Oh."

"Here's what we're going to do," Ivy said. "Nigma is going out tonight to get whatever he needs. You're going with him, Jonathan. There, problem solved."

There was no arguing with Ivy, partially because her plan made total sense, and partially because she had terrifying hordes of killer plants at her beck and call. Nigma and Crane, under Ivy's watchful eyes, made a truce. No more physical fighting, and the diseased families of both parties were off limits when insults were traded. Ivy was satisfied with the conditions.

"Wonderful. Now dry the carpet before mildew sets in," Ivy said. "And do the same with your shirt."

Two hours later, the carpet and Crane dry and the tenuous truce showing no more than a few minor cracks, Crane, Nigma, and Ivy were joined by Harley and her pair of hyenas. The blonde and her pets were famished from running around outside all day, and wanted nothing more than to eat half their weight in dinner. Unfortunately, dinner wasn't forthcoming. Ivy had been so busy brokering peace and Crane and Nigma had been so busy preventing moldy carpet that nobody had cooked anything. There were raw ingredients in the fridge, but nothing that worked alone as a complete meal for four people and two scavengers.

"Red, I'm hungry!" Harley whined. Her pets joined her in whimpering.

Ivy strode over to the fridge and pulled out an orange. She tossed it to Harley. Harley caught the fruit and pouted at it.

"I don't want a _snack_! I want dinner!"

"Then make something! What makes you think I'm going to do all the cooking around here?" Ivy snapped.

"Fine, maybe I will. But when the house burns down, don't come cryin' to me," Harley replied. She crossed the room and turned on the stove. Ivy came behind her and turned it off.

"Give me twenty minutes. Go watch TV and take those two with you." Ivy pointed at Nigma and Crane.

"If it's all the same to you, we're going to leave," Crane said.

"Then pick up some food while you're out," Ivy said.

"Where are you goin'? Huh, huh? Can I come?" Harley bounced up and down like an excited puppy.

"You'd find it boring. It involves chemistry," Crane replied.

All the bounce ran out of Harley and she slunk away to eat her orange and mutter. The hyenas, having nothing better to do, followed her. Crane retrieved the Cadillac's keys from Ivy—she had finally gotten around to disposing of the dreadful fobs—and he and Nigma made their getaway.

As the not-so-proud owner of a pink girlie scooter, Nigma nearly suffered a paroxysm of jealousy at the sight of Crane's superior ride. The Riddler, for all his loquaciousness, could do nothing except point at the car and stare in disbelief. How had Crane of all people managed to get hold of a Cadillac? How had Ivy allowed him to keep it?

"What it lacks in Hello Kitty, it makes up for everywhere else," Crane said as he smugly patted the hood.

Nigma had no smart remark. He had no dumb remarks. He was struck mute, which only heightened Crane's self-satisfaction.

"I'll let you drive," Crane offered, jingling the denuded keychain.

"Really?"

"No, you idiot. But you can ride in the front seat since I'm feeling uncharacteristically generous."

The Riddler took the offered seat and tried not to show how impressed he was with the interior. He stared straight ahead and refused to acknowledge the posh seating, stereo system, or any other amenities straight out of a flashy commercial. Crane basked in the disgruntled silence.

That silence persisted for most of the ride. Nigma continued to act like a tight-lipped clam and Crane didn't dare fiddle with the sound system lest he be blasted by whatever miscreant Auto-Tune had recently made into a star.

Crane eventually needed directions, since he had no idea where Nigma intended to get his mystery supplies. He breached the silence as the car headed into the seedier areas of Gotham. The Riddler oriented himself with a street sign that hadn't been stolen or defaced beyond recognition, and gave Crane directions.

"We're going to one of my recent hideouts. It should be well-stocked, always assuming Batman didn't crash in through the window," Nigma said.

"Which he likely did, as you probably gave him a detailed map marked with an X," Crane responded.

Nigma kept his mouth shut and ignored the jab. Crane wouldn't be insulting his intelligence—or the misunderstood genius of his riddles—for much longer.

"Turn here." Nigma pointed to a narrow, dark alley, the kind stereotypically inhabited by hobos and rapists.

The alley turned out to be free of any hobos or rapists, and the car made it through unharmed. Nigma directed Crane to take a left, and the car swung onto another pothole-riddled street.

"We're here," Nigma announced.

Crane looked out the window and saw a decaying, condemned tenement building. The whole structure looked ready to collapse the second anyone stepped inside. Hell, it looked ready to collapse without any outside intervention. A more prosperous city would have had the dangerous eyesore bulldozed ages ago, before it could serve as a deathtrap for the local homeless population or a hideaway for the local masked criminal population. Gotham's yearly budget, however, was spent long before any of it trickled down to razing abandoned buildings.

"You live _here_?" Crane asked.

"Yes, for tactical reasons. Nobody else is desperate enough to join me, and the Bat, weighed down by his armor, would fall straight through the floor," Nigma explained.

Crane parked the car, stuck the keys in his pocket, and stepped outside. The sun had set during the drive, and there was just enough light lingering for a quick examination of the building's façade. Crumbled bricks, as well as glass from broken windows and bottles, littered the area. All manner of trash had been blown like snowdrifts against the tenement building, and there were no doubt rats, roaches, and all other disease-spreading vermin swimming among the refuse. Crane only hoped nothing leapt out and fastened onto his ankles.

"How do we get in?" Crane noticed a length of chain and a padlock secured the front doors.

"Fire escape," Nigma replied.

The fire escape was in even worse shape than the rest of the building. Crane stared up into the network of rails and grating and imagined it all coming down on top of him. There was no way he was clambering up there.

Nigma, with no outward indication he was climbing on something as dangerous as a vertical minefield, leapt up and grabbed onto the bottom platform. His legs flailed and the whole structure creaked ominously. Crane took a step back and prepared to run should tons of rusted steel decide they were sick and tired of fighting gravity.

After a few seconds of kicking and looking like he lacked the upper-body strength to pull himself up, Nigma managed to haul his skinny butt onto the platform. He dropped the hinged ladder—which squealed like a pig in pain as it descended—to street level. Crane eyed the ladder with complete distrust.

"You can stay down there if you prefer, Crane, though that will prolong the time it takes to transfer the supplies," Nigma said.

Crane put a tentative hand on the ladder and then an even more tentative foot. He took a deep breath and stepped the other foot up. He waited for the fire escape to settle, and when it didn't collapse he began to climb.

By some miracle, the fire escape held together and Crane and Nigma made it to the third floor without plummeting thirty feet to the ground. Nigma opened the window, which somehow still had all its glass panes, and he and Crane crawled through and into the filthy hall.

The hall had, once upon a time, been carpeted. The carpet was now replaced with a layer of dust, junk from people who had cleared out years ago, and dead bugs. As they walked down the hallway, Crane looked back at his footsteps imprinted in the dust. They liked like an astronaut's footprints on the moon, if the curled up spiders were ignored.

"Here we are." Nigma opened the door to apartment 321.

Apartment 321 was like another world. None of the dust and crap from the hall was allowed beyond the door. The apartment was spotless, organized, and had not been ransacked by Batman.

"This way." Nigma led Crane into the kitchenette.

"Have you got food?" Crane asked.

"If you call dehydrated noodles food," Nigma replied.

"I do. We'll take it back for Harley and the hyenas." Crane, long the victim of having his food exploited, felt vindicated by giving someone else the same treatment.

Nigma nodded and beckoned Crane forward, deeper into the apartment. Ahead of him, Nigma stepped through a doorway. The Riddler seemed to lift his feet unusually high, as though he was trying not to step on something. Crane assumed a bug had managed to infiltrate the sanctity of Nigma's apartment, and the Riddler was too afraid of splattered guts to just crush it.

Crane had no fear of bugs, and didn't care if their putrid innards stained the Riddler's carpet. He strode into the room, paying no heed to any creepy-crawly that might be underfoot.

As he entered the room, he felt something catch at his ankles. He realized, much to his horror, that he'd just triggered a tripwire of some sort. Nigma had purposely stepped over it, and Crane had blundered straight into it.

A millisecond later, long before Crane could move out of the way, the twin prongs of a Taser stuck in his side. Fifty-thousand volts followed soon after.

The next thing Crane knew, Nigma's face was hovering over him and the ginger bastard was rifling through his pockets. Crane tried to punch the Riddler but couldn't get his hand to do so much as flop, let alone form a fist and knock out some teeth. He lay there, confused and helpless, as Nigma grabbed the keys to the Cadillac.

Nigma, keys in hand, stepped over Crane's twitching arm. Crane had just enough motor control to turn his head and watch the Riddler's retreating back.

* * *

_Hearts and Scalpels_ was a soap-opera on the TV series _Nip/Tuck_.

An ANFO bomb, also known as a fertilizer bomb, has two main components: ammonium nitrate (fertilizer) and fuel oil. Hence, ANFO.

Farm runoff deposited by the Mississippi River into the Gulf of Mexico has created a large dead zone in the ocean.


	18. Noodles and Spite

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

It was nightfall and all of the Joker's evil, criminal, and offensively frightening chickens had come home to roost. His chicken with the creepy missing digits had returned empty-handed for the moment, but had, among his extensive connections, made Jonathan Crane a wanted man. His masked chicken was pissed at the Russians and was brooding about it in the corner. And his emo chicken…well, the less said the better.

"For Christ's sake, don't just stand there bleeding on the carpet! Go find a goddamn bathroom and clean yourself up!" Oops, it looked like the masked chicken was mad at more than shoddy Russian weaponry now.

"It's not my blood."

"I don't care if it's the Pope's blood! It all stains the same! Get out!"

Like some grim chac-mool, Zsasz stood silent, somber, and gory. Another shout from Black Mask finally prodded him to listen. He left the room, blood droplets marking his path. Black Mask swore under his breath and wondered if there was any carpet cleaning company he could trust enough to allow its employees into his secret lair. He supposed he could always send one of his peons out to rent a Rug Doctor and then make said peon do the cleaning.

Once Zsasz was safely out of earshot, Black Mask turned to the Joker and scowled at him. The clown shrugged his shoulders. What could he do if Zsasz decided to go on a killing spree? He wasn't the serial killer's mother.

"What would possess you to bring _him_? You had to know—everyone in Gotham knows—all he does is kill people! And get shit all over my carpet!" Black Mask said.

"I believe it's blood, actually," the Joker refuted.

"Don't start with me. I get why you recruited the Shark—if he can't get it for you, it doesn't exist—and I know what I'm good for, but Zsasz? He's going to leave a dead body on the doorstep and somebody's going to come knocking. Whether it's a pig or a bat, I don't want that kind of attention."

"But he's funny!" Black Mask's incredulous stare demanded elaboration so the Joker continued. "Not all the time, but give him a spoon and an Arkham guard and you've got a party!"

Black Mask shook his head. That was just like the Joker, to be amused by fourteen-year-old boy humor. Spooning, haha, hilarious. On the off chance it had ever been funny, it sure as hell wasn't funny now.

"So he killed one guy with a spoon. He doesn't even have the spoon anymore. What good is he now? What's he going to do to find the Scarecrow? Nothing. Fire him," Black Mask said.

"Fire him when I'm not in the room. I don't want to be involved in that," Warren said. Up to that point, he'd been content to let the Joker and Black Mask argue among themselves. Now, though, they wanted to do something dangerous that could possibly result in innocent bystanders being chased around and threatened with cutlery.

"I don't want to fire him. He's doing a good job. Whatever his job is—controlling the homeless population or something like that—he's great at it," the Joker said.

Black Mask slammed his fist down on his desk. That display of anger would have sent his goons groveling pitifully. The Joker was completely unaffected; the only way a fist was going to intimidate him was if the fist belonged to Batman and was aimed at his face.

"He stays," the clown said simply.

"Like hell he does. He goes!"

"Stays."

"Goes!"

The door opened and the man in contention walked in, now dripping pink-tinted water behind him. He observed the tension between the Joker and Black Mask, decided not to comment on it, and returned to his post near the window.

For quite a while, things were awkward in the room. The Joker and Black Mask were no longer on speaking terms, Great White Shark had commandeered a laptop computer and was using it to examine the day's massacre on Wall Street, and Zsasz was being as social as a hermit. Nobody wanted to talk to anyone else, nobody had anything important to say, and everybody was starting to get sick and tired of everybody else.

The situation might have deteriorated from forced silence to free-for-all violence if not for a fortuitous phone call. White was in the process of perusing tech stocks when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Before the Joker could make any cracks about vibrations, White grabbed it and brought it up to his ear, or where his ear should have been, had it not been frozen off some years ago.

"I haven't changed my mind. I know your outfit, and I know it couldn't hack into the PlayStation network, let alone scratch Wayne Enterprises' firewalls. If you want to spend the next ten years in prison, be my guest," White said, all without letting the person on the other end get in so much as a peep.

He was about to end the unwanted call when a series of squawks and garbled, half-panicked exclamations stopped him. White decided to give the caller a second to explain himself. He listened first with annoyance, but then heard something that perked him up and made him sit up straight.

"Did you now? Are you sure it was the Riddler? Green coat, yeah, sounds like him. And the other guy? They didn't leave together? If you can get your ass up there; just don't attract attention to yourself. And if you value your brain, hold your breath if he makes any sudden moves or reaches for anything."

White ended the call and placed the phone back in his pocket. He looked around and was unsurprised to find everyone in the room staring intently at him. He felt so popular.

"Who was that?" the Joker asked.

"An associate. An associate who saw something very, very interesting on his way home," the Shark replied, grinning.

"What? What? What did he see? The anticipation is killing me!" The Joker mimed being shot by the anticipation and fell to the floor in a ridiculous heap.

"He happened to see two men climb up a fire escape into an abandoned building. One of the men was wearing a green coat, and looked like the Riddler. The other was tall, and that's the only detail I have. Less than ten minutes later, one guy comes down the fire escape moving like, and I quote, 'his ass was on fire and his hair was catching'. He drove away and nearly hit my associate in the process," White reported.

"The Riddler and the Scarecrow? It's a two-man nerd convention!" the Joker said.

"Before you start celebrating, remember that my associate isn't exactly Seal Team Six. He never was very bright and last I heard, he was brained with a crowbar. Even if he does get his ass up that fire escape—which he may not—and he finds the Scarecrow, there's a high probability he'll end up gassed, jump out the window, and appear in the obituaries tomorrow." Warren White had learned long ago, back when he wasn't the most hated man in America, that massive amounts of faith shouldn't be put in minions.

"I'm glad you're so confident," the clown muttered. He wanted Johnny caught, and he didn't want the Shark's flunkies to be the reason it didn't happen.

"There's nothing to do except wait," White replied.

The Joker hated waiting. He hated it so much he felt compelled to scoot his chair in circles around White, who prayed his associate phoned back soon.

* * *

When he got his hands on the Riddler, there would be blood. And screaming. And violence so despicable and unconscionable that it would shock and disgust even Eli Roth. It would be spectacular!

And he'd get started on it, just as soon as he regained full control of his body. Which might take a while, truth be told. Crane's limbs weren't particularly keen on obeying his brain just then, and his brain was still discombobulated from having had thousands of volts of electric current run through and wasn't fit to give orders anyway.

After another few minutes of lying on the linoleum floor, Crane's head was clear and he was able to hate the Riddler more articulately. He could also get his limbs to do what he wanted of them. With a little effort and wincing, Crane was able to get to his feet. Relying on the counter for support, he managed to drag his poor, electrocuted ass over to the kitchenette's tiny table.

Crane plopped down in the only available chair. Seeing as how this was the only seat, he surmised the Riddler never got visitors. He wasn't surprised.

Despite his anger, Crane had the clarity of mind to realize he couldn't go tearing across Gotham on a hell-bent quest to hunt down the Riddler and exterminate him. For one thing, he had no car. Then there was also the issue of the insane clown and his posse that wanted Crane's head. Crane didn't expect the Joker to have his minions physically out on the streets, looking for their quarry—though with the Joker nothing was out of the question—but two of those minions did have a serious network of cronies. If a run-of-the-mill street thug saw him, word could make its way back to Black Mask or the Great White Shark.

Maybe it would be best to wait until dawn, when the thugs that prowled the streets at night returned like vampires to their roosts and crack houses. The idea of Nigma cruising through Gotham, not being tortured, frightened into insanity, and killed did grind on Crane's nerves, but it was only for one night. The back-stabbing bastard could enjoy his twice-stolen Cadillac until Crane was ready to pounce on him. In the mean time, Crane intended to exploit the Riddler's hideout.

Since he was already in the kitchen, Crane decided to raid Nigma's food stash. Even if, as the Riddler had claimed, all he had was Ramen noodles, Crane would be satisfied. It didn't bother him—or so he told himself—that as an infamous super villain, he ate the same crap he did in college.

The kitchenette offered limited storage space and that made the quest for food easy. Crane opened a cabinet door and was greeted with two mismatched plates, a coffee mug, a drinking glass, a bowl, and stacks of cans on the higher shelves. He was amused to discover the cans were arranged alphabetically by their contents. It was nice to know there were people out there more neurotic than he was.

He could eat beans and chick peas at Ivy's house. While she wasn't here to enforce healthy eating and strict vegetarianism, Crane wanted something that Ivy would scowl at and possibly physically abuse him for eating. He shut the cans of vegetables away and opened the neighboring cupboard.

Bingo. This cupboard held the Riddler's supply of dried noodles. They were arranged by flavor. For the sheer hell of it, Crane switched the chicken-flavored noodles with the shrimp ones and allowed himself an evil cackle. While giving alphabetical order the middle finger didn't rank with poisoning the innocent citizens of Gotham, it was satisfying.

Having screwed with the Riddler, Crane decided it was time to eat. He selected a random packet of noodles and then went back for the Riddler's only bowl. He hoped the bowl was microwave safe, or at least wouldn't melt entirely. Not that a blob of melted plastic and noodles wouldn't be exactly what Nigma deserved to find in his microwave. It would just be difficult to eat out of said melted mass of plastic.

Crane filled the bowl with water, plopped in the woven brick of noodles, and stuck it in the microwave. While he waited for his noodles, he raided the tiny refrigerator. There weren't any perishables like milk—or any alcohol, alas—but there was enough bottled water to fill a large aquarium. Crane glanced at the bowl rotating in the microwave. The heat would kill off anything in Gotham's water supply. Hopefully.

Lacking any other options, Crane selected a bottle of water and returned to the table. He sipped it while the microwave cooked his ramen. The microwave finally beeped and Crane was faced with a problem he should have foreseen. Make that two problems. He couldn't grab the bowl with his bare hands, as it had been heated to roughly a million degrees. There was also the matter of having no cutlery.

The cutlery problem was easy to solve. Nigma had a drawer of it, out of which Crane selected a spoon. The bowl being as hot as the surface of the sun was a more difficult matter to resolve. Crane eventually found the perfect solution. Instead of searching for a potholder, he strolled into Nigma's bedroom, was careful of the tripwire this time, and found a pair of the Riddler's pants.

Now that he'd taken care of all his problems, and had spilled beef-infused water on Nigma's pants, Crane was able to enjoy his meal. He spooned up some noodles and brought them to his mouth.

The door opened. A very surprised-looking man stood there. Crane spat noodles all over the table.

The man in the doorway recovered his wits enough to ask Crane's name. Crane recovered his wits enough to grab his bowl of steaming noodles and hurl it at the intruder's face. While the man clutched his face, screamed, and made entreaties to God, Crane bolted from the room.

* * *

Author's notes:

A chac-mool is a type of statue found at some Mayan sites. While the statues' purpose is debated, one of the theories is that they were used during human sacrifices.

Seal Team Six was the group that killed Osama bin Laden.

Director and actor Eli Roth has given us films such as _Hostel _and its sequel and has portrayed the only film character to ever make audiences feel sorry for the Nazis.


	19. Grandma's Wheels

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Crane didn't know where he was going, or how he was going to get there, but he needed to escape the Riddler's apartment. With speed that was inviting disaster with open arms, Crane bolted down the rickety fire escape. The whole rusted structure groaned and from the very top of the fire escape there came a metallic grind that suggested decades-old bolts were on the verge of succumbing to decay. Crane was unaware of the fire escape's noises, as he couldn't hear anything over the pounding beat of his own heart.

He made it to street level and wasted no time sprinting from the building as fast as his long legs would carry him. Crane ran without direction or sense of time, everything passing by him in a blur. He was hardly aware of how dark it was, most of the streetlights having been vandalized. It was sheer good luck that kept him from tripping over a sleeping hobo or getting run down by a car.

It was only a stabbing spike of pain in his side that finally brought Crane's marathon to an end. He clutched the gnawing stitch in his side and was forced to stop and lean against the side of a building for support. While he panted for breath and massaged the troublesome stitch, Crane tried to recover his bearings.

There were no street signs available, but the light of a nearby liquor store was inviting. Crane walked towards the light, ignored the sixteen year old kid who tried to con him into abetting underage drinking, and entered the store. He was greeted by the shop's cashier, who was showing a friend of the kid outside that twenty-one meant twenty-one.

"Next time I catch you in here, Jamal, I'm calling the police. I'm sick of warning you, I'm sick of your shitty fake ID, and I'm sick of looking at you. Now get lost!"

Crane stepped aside so the kid could be tossed out. Once the cashier was sure the delinquents were gone, he turned to the customer he could legally serve.

"Are you alright?" The cashier eyed Crane warily; he'd seen his fair share of weird, crazy, and strung-out people, and he didn't want to deal with another one.

"I recently suffered a home invasion. It's left me rather shaken. I apologize for my appearance and I promise I'm not dangerous," Crane replied.

"Damn, you don't have to say nothing else. If I go a month without someone trying to rob me, I call it a miracle. They steal anything or hurt you?"

"I never gave them the chance to hurt me, though I can't say what they did with my possessions."

"You ran away, huh? Can't blame you. 'Course, I'm packing heat, so I can even the odds a little."

Crane had been expecting guns; most of the obvious robbery targets in Gotham had wised up and armed their nightshift employees. Luckily for him, he hadn't come to cause trouble. He just needed to know where he was, hope the street name triggered something in his memory, and then make tracks.

"This may sound like an odd question, but what's the address? I was in such a panic I've lost my bearings," Crane said.

The cashier provided a street address and a dusty, flickering light bulb went on in Crane's head. He'd heard of the street. He had a general idea of where it was on a map. He might have possibly snatched a few test subjects up from the surrounding area. With a bit of luck, he could steal a car and wring his memory until it led him back to Ivy.

"Thank you very much," Crane said.

"Yeah, no problem. You wanna call the cops or somebody to come pick you up?" the cashier asked.

"I've got a cell phone and I called the cops before I took off. I'll probably go back home and take stock of the damage. And file a police report before I go to war with my insurance company." By God he was a talented bullshitter!

"You have fun dealing with the cops. I'd offer you a beer, but they'd probably arrest you, charge you with public intoxication or something.

After a few more parting pleasantries, Crane stepped back out into the night a good deal braver. That was when Jamal and his pal jumped him.

Jamal had learned his killer moves from video games featuring rap stars and WrestleMania. He flashed an extravagant series of hand gestures that made him look less like Jet Li and more like a mime suffering from Parkinson's disease. His friend tried to avoid his jazz hands.

While Jamal hopped around like an idiot, Crane calmly ducked one of the young thug's showy punches and grabbed him by his collar. Jamal was nearly a foot shorter than Crane. Crane had to lean down considerably to get in the teenager's face.

"Do you know who I am?" Crane hissed.

"No, man, lemme go before I…before I do somethin'!"

"You, a vermin of the streets, are threatening _me_? The Master of Fear and the Lord of Despair! The almighty Scarecrow!"

"Oh shit! Look, I didn't know you was anybody like that! Please, man, don't hurt me!" Jamal quivered in his sneakers.

Crane hadn't been able to bask in another man's terror in far too long and he wanted to savor it like fine wine. It was a bloody shame he had no fear toxin on him to heighten the experience, but he would make do with unenhanced intimidation.

"I've been looking for new guinea pigs for a few days now, and you are just what I need: a young, healthy, spineless specimen. Without any chemical influence you're flush with fear! Imagine, Jamal, what it will be like when your worst fears slither across your skin…or perhaps _under_ it." Crane skittered a finger across Jamal's cheek and the teenager nearly cried.

"Please, I'll do anything! Don't make me no science experiment! I'm sorry I tried to mess with you, oh God, come on!" Jamal begged.

Crane paused, as though considering what this insignificant worm could possibly offer him. He already knew exactly what he wanted from Jamal (asides from to hear him beg and scream) but drawing it out was part of the game. The more the boy was rattled, the more cooperative he'd be.

"There may be one thing you can do to save your life. Tell me, do you have a car?"

Five minutes later, Crane was stationed behind the wheel of a car that looked like it had been attacked by Robosaurus. The car interior smelled, oddly enough, of a combination of marijuana and cheap floral perfume. Crane wondered if the perfume was an ineffective attempt to mask the pot odor, or if Jamal and his friends had actually tried getting high off it.

As the car vanished, Jamal collapsed onto the sidewalk. His friend, who had taken cover behind a nearby lamppost, emerged from hiding.

"We ain't gonna see that car again. Jamal, man, your grandma's gonna _kill_ you!"

* * *

The Riddler was caught in a traffic jam. While that wouldn't have been unusual six hours ago during the pinnacle of rush hour, Gotham was usually navigable at night. Perhaps someone had gotten into an accident, or some other, lesser costumed Rogue was impeding the flow of vehicles.

Whatever it was, it was boring and it was putting a serious damper on the Riddler's escape. He wanted to be out of the city and somewhere in Ohio before the sun came up. At this rate, he'd be lucky to reach the city limits before the next decade rolled around. Frustrated and brimming with impatience, the Riddler began to drum Beethoven's Ninth Symphony on his steering wheel.

"Gorgeousness and gorgeousity," the Riddler muttered as his hands tapped.

Somewhere in the congested mess of cars ahead of him, a horn started bleating. Beautiful. That would really make the experience more enjoyable. Nigma began whaling on the steering wheel and humming the symphony as loud as possible.

A few second after the horn quieted, a much more unusual sound reverberated from the heart of the traffic jam. It was a series of heavy thuds accompanied by the shriek of metal being torqued and twisted. Nigma, for all his extraordinary cleverness, couldn't imagine what could be the source of the screeching.

Several blocks away, at what was probably the epicenter of the traffic jam, blue and red emergency vehicle lights flashed. Nigma's curiosity grew insatiable. He abandoned Beethoven, rolled down his window, and stuck his head out. He couldn't see what had sparked the display. Undeterred, the Riddler opened his door and climbed onto the roof.

Nigma could make out what appeared to be three police cars forming a blockade straight across the street. It was no wonder traffic was jammed. The question remained, though, as to why the cops had erected a roadblock. What was going on up there? And why had the police only turned on their lights after that ungodly metallic screech?

The lights on one of the police cars abruptly went dark. There came that ghastly noise again. Even from a distance, it still made Nigma wince.

Illuminated by the lights of the remaining cruisers, a massive dark shape reared up. That caused quite the reaction in people trapped in the cars nearest the towering form. Nigma heard a chorus of screams, both male and female, and a cacophony of slamming doors as people panicked and abandoned their vehicles.

The dark figure let loose a saurian roar, which identified him as clearly as if he'd presented a driver's license and social security card. There was only one Gotham villain whose growl could have been a sound effect in _Jurassic Park_ and who could have torn apart a police car with his bare hands: Killer Croc.

Nigma hopped off the roof, scurried back into his car, locked the door, and rolled up the window. He then ducked down until he was just able to peer over the steering wheel. He was trapped in a traffic jam with Killer Croc, and Killer Croc was getting pissed. There was no way for this to end well.

Killer Croc roared again, and his snarling was met with gunshots. The big lizard had apparently done something to upset the police. Maybe he'd tried to open one of their cars like a tin of sardines and snack on the unfortunate officers inside.

Armored as he was, Killer Croc was nearly immune to bullets. As they struck his scaly hide, he felt only minor stinging. Though he wasn't being dealt any physical damage, Croc's reptilian brain decided the best course of action would be to thoroughly kill and mutilate the police that dared attack him.

Things would have gone downhill very fast for the police if, just as Croc stuck his powerful claws straight through the windshield, Batman hadn't appeared out of nowhere and kicked the lizard in the face. Croc stumbled away and raised a hand to his aching jaw. He was less than pleased to discover the Bat's boot had knocked out a tooth.

Despite his bulk, Killer Croc was frighteningly fast. He slashed at Batman, who barely dodged each potentially lethal swipe. When Batman leapt atop the damaged police cruiser, Killer Croc followed him, clambering up the hood in pursuit. His enormous feet left deep dents in the hood and the windshield offered no resistance when Croc stepped on it. Batman was forced to abandon the higher ground and leapt from the cruiser. Killer Croc took the time to stomp the roof, bowing it and putting the car permanently out of service, before he pursued Batman on the pavement.

The Riddler had seen this scene in many a disaster movie: hysterical people, finally realizing that they would not be driving out of danger, forgot all about their cars and went running down the street like it would improve their chances of survival. If he wasn't so worried about the increasingly deranged roars echoing around him, he could have laughed at the sudden refugees' stupidity. Oh yes, what a wonderful idea your undersized brain just hatched. You'll be so much safer outside! Your tee shirt will definitely provide better protection than your crumple zone and your five-star safety rated side impact airbags!

If this kept up much longer, every major auto insurance company would be clamoring for the Batman's head. During their game of bat and croc, no fewer than ten cars, three SUVs, a motorcycle, and a pickup truck had been damaged or outright destroyed. Killer Croc crushed anything he stepped on, and Batman, weighed down by armor, was no feather, either. At least all of the vehicles had been empty.

As he leapt from roof to roof and hood to trunk, careful to stay outside of Croc's reach, Batman knew this couldn't go on forever. He had to stop Croc before the murderous lizard put any more motorists in danger or destroyed any more property. Unfortunately, stopping Croc was just slightly easier than stopping a bulldozer.

The roars were definitely getting closer. The Riddler decided getting a clearer view was worth the risk and popped his head up a bit higher. He could see, if he tilted his head at just the right angle to see over the ridiculously large SUV in front of him, Killer Croc mashing the hell out of the side of a delivery van. Someone wearing a cape clung to the roof of the van. Though it was difficult to tell at the distance and in the dim light provided by the police lights, that caped someone was probably Batman.

The Riddler considered abandoning ship as almost every other motorist had done five minutes ago. Then he examined his position. If he ran out, he'd have no crowd to hide among. He'd be the only target, and while Croc was only marginally smarter than the rocks he liked to throw, the brute had to realize threatening to bite an innocent bystander in half would throw Batman off balance. Nigma hunkered down again.

Batman felt the van shake as though it was caught in a powerful earthquake. Croc continued to shred the vehicle, and it was no longer safe to stay on the roof. With no other options except escape, the Dark Knight checked the surrounding vehicles for a safe landing spot.

A neighboring sedan offered a broad, flat roof and Batman went for it. As he leapt, he heard Croc bellow and metal scream. Before he could make a safe landing, Croc erupted out of the van and grabbed him by the leg. The scaly maniac had plowed straight through the van and had emerged in time to snag his prey.

Batman tried to hang onto the sedan's roof, only to have Croc, with one yank, pull him free. The lizard dangled Batman upside down and gave him a good shake. Batman responded by trying to plant his free foot in Croc's hideous face. Croc objected to that treatment and swung Batman into the car he'd been trying to reach.

His face colliding with the car nearly knocked Batman unconscious. He went limp and his vision dimmed; if not for his iron will, he would surely have passed out. Kill Croc, believing he'd tenderized his food enough, dropped Batman to the asphalt.

Batman made no attempt to rise. If he did, he suspected Killer Croc would stomp on him until he laid flat. Several hundred pounds of crushing force, even through his Kevlar armor, could easily be a death blow.

Killer Croc reached down and grabbed Batman by the neck. He hoisted the unresponsive hero up and snarled in his face. Batman held his breath so the reek oozing from Croc's maw wouldn't make him sick.

"Gotcha Bat," Croc hissed, his voice warped by disuse and morphing vocal chords to the point he was almost unintelligible.

Batman continued to play dead. While Croc concentrated on his victim's face, Batman slid a hand to his utility belt. If Croc noticed the movement, Batman would be a dead man and missing a large chunk of his face or neck. His fingers reached their target, and Batman slid a small capsule from his belt.

"And now I'm gonna eatcha." Croc threw open his jaws and brought Batman's head towards them.

Inches from certain horrible death, Batman slammed the capsule against Croc's face. The capsule burst, showering the deformed criminal with liquid. Some of the liquid found its way into Croc's eyes, and he inhaled a few drops through his nostrils. He immediately howled in pain and dropped Batman so he could clutch at his burning eyes and snout.

While Croc shouted and thrashed, Batman moved in to finish the job. As dangerous a move as it was, he leapt onto Croc's shoulders. Croc, blind and in agony, clawed at whatever had dared climb onto him. Batman interlaced his hands to make a hammer, raised them high, and brought them down on the back of Croc's skull in a single devastating blow.

Croc grunted, fell forward and collapsed with a thud. He managed to land squarely on top of a motorcycle, and effectively reduced several thousand dollars' worth of machinery into scrap.

Batman crawled off of Croc's back and pulled himself to his feet using a car for support. His head throbbed viciously and his hands ached from being driven against Killer Croc's rock hard head. This was not a good way to be starting the night.

"You alright, Batman?"

The cops that had nearly been murdered by Killer Croc had come to investigate the aftermath. The six of them had their guns drawn even though the weapons had proved to be as effective as spitballs.

"I'm fine. You need to have Croc back at Arkham before he recovers. Worry about that," Batman replied.

"Got it. We'll call for, I don't know, a flatbed truck and a winch. That ought to do it," the cop said.

Batman nodded. His vision doubled and his head nearly exploded. He would not be nodding again that night.

While the police dealt with the logistics of carting away a dinosaur and somehow clearing two lanes of abandoned vehicles, Batman was left with figuring out how to make a properly heroic and mysterious exit. With his headache, he didn't feel up to doing anything more than walking away or calling a cab. Unfortunately, he had an image to uphold and no taxi, not even one driven by the half-insane cabbies of Gotham, would be able to navigate through the massive mess of traffic or the police roadblock.

With no other options, Batman pulled out his grappling gun and aimed it at the roof of a nearby building. He took a moment to prepare for the speed before firing the gun. Once the line was secure, Batman zipped away into the night.

Upon landing on the roof, he clutched his head and wondered what he had done to deserve all the senseless brain trauma he'd been getting of late. His only consolation was that this headache had been brought on by Killer Croc, and not the Joker wielding a toaster.

* * *

Robosaurus is a giant robotic dinosaur that, often at monster truck rallies, destroys cars via teeth and flamethrower.

Beethoven's Ninth and the "gorgeousness and gorgeousity" are both related to _A Clockwork Orange_. The Riddler is fully aware he's making the allusion.


	20. False Arrest

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Candice Green knew something was wrong when her grandson slouched through the door without even trying to make an excuse for stealing her car. There were no wild stories of emergencies, sick friends, or gang fights. There was just one very unhappy, very shaken kid.

"Where've you been?" Candice asked.

"Scarcrow stole your car," Jamal replied, his voice shaking on Crane's name.

"_What_?"

"Scarecrow, Grandma, he stole your car. I was hangin' out with Lil Fred, and the Scarecrow attacked us! He said he'd kill me unless I gave him your car. I was all like 'nah, man, I'm too young to die' and he was all 'I'm gonna mess you up and scare you and shit' so I didn't have a choice. It wasn't my fault or anythin'!"

As unbelievable as the Scarecrow hijacking her eighteen-year-old jalopy was, it was not the type of story Jamal was capable of making up. When he tried to cover his misdeeds with lies, he never blamed anyone except the police or whoever his ex-girlfriend happened to be dating at the time. Unless the ex-girlfriend had widely expanded her taste in men, Jamal had no reason to pull the Scarecrow's name out of thin air.

"Get me the phone, Jamal," Candice said.

A phone call to 911 later, an APB was issued for Candice's car. Every officer in Gotham, as well as anyone who happened to possess a police scanner—which included Batman and a significant portion of the citizenry and villainy—knew Jonathan Crane was cruising around in a Buick that was old enough to vote and apply to college.

Only Jonathan Crane was no longer cruising. He hadn't managed more than a few miles before the car keeled over and died. One minute he'd been sailing along at two miles over the speed limit, and the next he was sitting on the shoulder with smoke or steam or the car's soul pouring from under the hood.

Inside the car, his forehead pressed against the steering wheel, Crane could not find the motivation to leave the crippled vehicle. He had, in a matter of seconds, developed crushing cases of fatalism and depression. It was too hard to worry about trivialities like abandoning a stolen vehicle or escaping what was looking more and more like a fire in the engine when the universe was taking all its sadism out on you.

"_Que será, será_," Crane muttered as he noticed the acrid stink of burning wires and insulation.

If the ever-increasing odds of a spectacular fireball couldn't pull Crane from his spiral of self-pity, it was no surprise the flashing red and blue lights that pulled behind the Buick failed to rouse him, either. Crane stayed slumped, and to anyone peering in the window, he would have appeared unconscious.

It just so happened that someone soon was peering in the window. Unsatisfied with simply peering, he was soon shining a flashlight that was so bright it was only a few lumens away from instantly vaporizing retinas. When that _still_ didn't do it for the inconsiderate bastard, he started tapping on the window while he kept his light saber flashlight trained on Crane's face.

"Hey, your car's on fire. Can you hear me? Hey, Scarecrow!"

Without removing his forehead from the steering wheel, Crane groped out a hand, felt up the door, and found the lock. He engaged the lock, then used his hand to wave off whoever was shining that damned light in his eyes.

"What are you doing? Your car is _on fire_! Get out of there!"

Acting like Mr. Bellamy, Crane decided to completely ignore the increasingly agitated voice that harassed him. He was not getting out of the car; he had hoped the locked door would get that message across. Unfortunately, he must have been dealing with a complete idiot.

"Look, I know what trouble you're in, Scarecrow."

Of course he was in trouble! He'd stolen a car, threatened a teenager, and had been evading justice for months since his last escape from Arkham.

"I don't mean for the grand theft auto. I mean with the Joker. I know the clown wants you."

That bullied its way straight through Crane's fog of misery and kicked his brain into action. Crane sat up and squinted at the brilliant light stabbing through his window.

"Killing yourself isn't the way to deal with that. If I have to I'll break the window and pull you out, but I don't want to do that. Come on, Scarecrow. This isn't how a guy like you should go out."

Crane thought about it. For all the time he'd been brooding in the Buick, he hadn't considered the reputation he had to uphold. The Master of Fear did not deserve to be charred beyond a crisp and identified by his dental records. Such a death would tarnish his legacy; his notorious career would be capped not with a spectacular exit but with a shoddy self-immolation.

"You win," Crane said.

The cop withdrew, taking his blinding flashlight with him. Once the cop was out of the way, Crane unlocked the door and opened it. He and the policeman faced each other. The cop, perhaps too relieved Crane wasn't going to cook, hadn't even had the presence of mind to draw his gun.

"Thank you for bringing me to my senses. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I must be going."

"Sorry, Scarecrow, I can't let you do that," the cop replied.

"If you think saving my life puts me in your debt, you're horribly mistaken. Your reward is leaving here unscathed. Attempt to arrest me and I will banish you to a nightmare realm from which there is no escape."

"You don't have any fear gas on you. There's no way you would have been in that car if you weren't defenseless."

Crane bristled. Just because he happened to be without his chief weapon—and damn the cop for realizing it—that didn't mean he turned into a timid pile of straw. He was not getting into that police car without a fight.

"I am hardly defenseless," Crane snapped.

"And you're hardly armed to the teeth. Don't make this any harder than it has to be," the cop replied. His hand was now resting on his belt, the warning implicit: if Crane tried anything, the cop was ready for it.

"I don't have a history of cooperating with law enforcement, and I don't think that's going to change." In one spectacularly uncooperative move, Crane turned and bolted past his smoldering car.

The cop swore and gave chase. Crane was faster and established quite the lead with the narrow head start he'd been given.

If it had been a fair footrace, Crane would have gotten away. Unfortunately, the policeman was able to play dirty. He drew his gun, aimed just above Crane's head, and fired.

"That's your only warning! Next time I'll shoot you!" the cop shouted.

Crane came to a skidding halt. He was not going to die from a bullet in the back; that was a death for common street rats. Furious at himself, at the despicable cop, and at all of creation in general, Crane turned around and glared at the approaching officer.

"Put your hands on your head, Scarecrow."

Grudgingly, Crane obeyed. The cop stepped towards him, keeping his weapon pointed at Crane's chest the whole time.

"Now turn around."

Crane turned and waited to be cuffed. The cop came up behind him, and once more Crane cursed his lack of fear gas. If only he'd had a dose of his dreadful compound!

An arm cinched across Crane's throat. The surprise wore off quickly, and Crane began to fight back. He elbowed the body behind him and managed to get a few jabs to the cop's ribs before the cop tightened his chokehold.

His oxygen cut off and the blood flow to his brain restricted, Crane felt a terrible weakness grip him. His knees buckled, his head swam, and his vision flickered like a dying light bulb. All the fight left him and he went limp.

Unsure of how long Crane would be out, the cop quickly dragged the unconscious rogue back to his cruiser. He took a moment to handcuff Crane before dumping his body in the back seat. As his head struck the seat, Crane moaned. By the time the cop maneuvered his long legs in, Crane was trying to sit up.

What in the hell had that been about? He'd had his hands on his head, damn it, and he had done nothing to deserve being choked into unconsciousness! What kind of psychopathic sons of bitches was Gordon letting into his police force nowadays?

"Sorry, Scarecrow, but I couldn't risk you running off again. I need you," the cop said.

Not 'I need to take you in' or 'I need to get you off the streets'. I need _you_. Crane did not like the phrasing, not one bit. Knowing his luck, he'd been found by some sexual deviant who, asides from choking people, also got off on handcuffing and molesting them. If his night ended like a scene from _Deliverance_, he was going to be _pissed_.

"What do you need me for?" Crane asked.

"Repaying a debt."

Great. He wasn't going to be dragged to a dark back alley and degraded. He was going to be sold to human traffickers, and then degraded in a back alley in Bangkok.

"That doesn't sound like usual police procedure."

"I haven't radioed in your arrest, and I'm not going to. Nobody's going to know about this except you, me, and…my debt collector."

"Oh please, don't give me to the IRS. I'll do anything. I'll shine your shoes, I'll iron your uniform, I'll housetrain your K9 unit." It was good to know the chokehold hadn't caused any oxygen deprivation to the part of Crane's brain responsible for sarcasm.

"It's not the IRS. Shit, Scarecrow, I really don't want to do this. Please don't hold it against me."

Every time the cop opened his mouth, he managed to unnerve Crane worse. The conversation had progressed from what Crane perceived as sexual deviancy, to human trafficking, to something so diabolical it was wringing the cop's conscience.

"Who's your debt collector? Tell me!" Crane demanded.

"The Shark. The Great White Shark."

"You bastard."

* * *

While Crane was raging in the back of a police car, the Great White Shark was trying to understand whoever or whatever was filling his phone with noise. It sounded like Ozzy Osbourne attempting to talk through a mouthful of dry mashed potatoes while someone tortured Nicholas Cage with bees in the background. And it was annoying as shit.

"Talk so I can understand you! Who even is this?" White asked.

Somehow, through the garbled sounds, White gleaned a few words. One of them was 'Scarecrow'.

"So was it him? Was it Crane?"

"Yeah." At least it sounded like a yeah. It could have been 'year,' though that wouldn't have made sense in the context.

"And what the hell happened? Why are you talking like that and what took you so long?"

More Ozzy-and-background-bees. White pressed a palm against his face. He was starting to get a headache, and he wasn't going to bum aspirin off of any of the freaks in the room.

"Enunciate! Do you know what that means?" White snapped.

There was a noise akin to a sob, and then, "He burned my face off."

"He _what_?"

At White's violence outburst, the other rogues suddenly found him interesting. The Joker was so interested in what had set the Shark off that he rolled his chair into White's personal space and stuck his head mere inches from the phone. Irritated by the clown's proximity, Warren tried to shoo him off with one deformed hand. The Joker stuck his tongue out in disgust over White's missing digits but refused to scoot over.

"He threw boiling water on me and I'm covered in blisters. I think I have to go to the hospital," White's minion cried.

"You do that. But where is Crane?"

"I don't know! He's gone and ow! Oh my God, there's something oozing out of that blister!"

White grimaced. He did not need to know about his henchman's seeping burns, he really didn't.

"Alright, go get that treated. Now."

The whimpering henchman ended the call and White, almost traumatized by the call, returned the phone to his pocket.

Seconds later, the phone rang. Warren hoped it wasn't the henchman asking him for money to pay his medical bills. White didn't give to charity cases, and he sure as hell didn't provide Blue Cross, Blue Shield for his goons.

"I've got him."

Well, that wasn't cryptic or anything. White asked whoever was on the line to kindly be a little less vague.

"You made my mistake disappear, and now I'm paying you back. I've got the Scarecrow. Where do you want him?"

White put his mysterious caller on hold and consulted with Black Mask and the Joker. Black Mask, for obvious reasons, didn't want some chump learning the exact address of his secret lair. The Joker didn't care if said chump turned Black Mask's lair into a roadside attraction and promoted it in Gotham's official tourist guidebook. He wanted his Scarecrow, and he wanted it now!

"Here's a compromise," White said over the Joker and Black Mask's bickering. "My man can bring Crane to the street corner. He won't know exactly where we're hiding, and nobody will have to walk too far."

"Or we could just have Zsasz kill him. Then we won't have to walk at all, and we'll get free entertainment," the Joker said.

"That psychopath is not chopping up anyone in here! No offense, Vic, but you are one sick puppy. He's already made enough of a mess on the carpet," Black Mask replied.

"Why are you so obsessed with your carpet? It's not even that nice."

"Do you know what a square foot costs?"

"No, I can't say I've ever seen a square foot for sale. I did once see a Bigfoot plaster cast for sale, though. Would a square foot be worth more than a Sasquatch foot, do you think?"

"Your jokes aren't half as funny as you think they are."

Hardly able to be heard over the arguing, White was forced to leave the room and duck out into the hall. Once he had a door between himself and the zoo, he was able to give the caller a nearby intersection. The caller confirmed the address, and was about to hang up when White stopped him.

"Let me talk to Crane," Warren said.

"The Shark wants to talk to you." The cop pressed his cell phone against the safety partition that separated him from Crane.

Crane leaned forward until he was nearly touching the partition, and then shouted as loudly as he could into the phone. The cop leapt at the yell, and the cruiser skidded. He nearly dropped the phone and came just as close to losing total control of his vehicle.

White immediately yanked the phone away but was left with a painful ringing sensation in his ear. Damn, Crane had a serious set of pipes! And some serious _cojones_. White had to admire a man who could act that belligerently in the face of approaching death.

Having regained the road, the cop took the phone from Crane and placed it back against his own ear. He apologized on Crane's behalf—White told him not to bother, Crane could apologize himself soon enough—and gave an estimated time of arrival: twenty-five minutes or so, depending on how many red lights he ignored.

Everything arranged, White disconnected and went to relay the information to the Joker. The clown was still squabbling with Black Mask—they'd moved from square feet and Bigfoot onto the Loch Ness Monster—and White had to shout to get their attention.

"My man will have the Scarecrow on the corner in twenty-five minutes," White announced.

"Thirty minutes or less. Now that's service!" the Joker said, giggling.

Jonathan Crane, the Master of Fear and the Lord of Despair, had been reduced to a pizza delivery. His life was truly over.

* * *

Author's Notes:

_Que será, será _is a Spanish phrase that means "what will be, will be".

_Mr. Bellamy_ is a song by Paul McCartney in which a man sitting on a ledge refuses to come down.

_Deliverance_ is the epitome of the degenerate, backwoods killers genre of horror.

Nicholas Cage is attacked by bees in the craptacular remake of _The Wicker Man_. I seem to pick on Mr. Cage quite a bit but it's hard to resist "_Ahh, not the bees!"_


	21. Kick a Ginger Night

Thanks for the reviews! You guys are da bomb, as they used to say back in the day.

* * *

This was taking forever! The Riddler ground his teeth and clutched the steering wheel hard enough to instigate finger cramping. It took all his self control not to start pounding on the horn and shouting that the cops weren't fit to organize bingo night at the retirement home, let alone disperse a traffic jam.

The problem with getting people back in their cars and sending them on their way was that, upon seeing Killer Croc, most people had fled…to the nearest bar. While it was a huge boon in business for the bar, the cops were faced with determining sobriety before anyone could drive away. Apparently, as part of their evolved defense mechanism, when a Gothamite was faced with a terrible, mutated lizard-man, his instinctive response was to consume alcohol until all the teeth and car-crushing horror faded into the ether.

The Riddler looked behind him. He was at the very end of the congestion, and if the owner of the damned pickup parked directly behind him would move his hulk of a truck, the Riddler was sure he could back up and escape. Where was the bastard?

Oh, there he was. And he was drunk! No, scratch that, he was utterly plastered off his keister. And there he was attempting to climb into his truck. And there he was shouting at the cops. And there he was getting arrested. And there went any chance the Riddler was going to wait out this hellish mess.

Edward Nigma reached the end of his rope. He waited until the drunk was dragged away before slipping from his car. He assumed the police would order him back into his vehicle if they saw him run now, so he ducked down and crept around the side of the Cadillac. Being the talented little sneaky snake that he was, he managed to elude two cops who had their backs turned and their minds focused on the giant unconscious crocodile that still hadn't been trucked off to Arkham.

It was too early to celebrate with a cup of tea in his "I am a genius" mug—and there was the little issue of both tea and snarky mug being back in his apartment, likely smashed to crap by Crane—as the Riddler was now without a car. But at least he was mobile. He could leg it. He had other hideouts. He…didn't know alleys could get this dark.

As though he had stumbled into the Blair Witch's lair, the Riddler retreated from the alley as fast as his legs would carry him. This was going to put a damper on his plan to sneak across Gotham unnoticed. It was difficult to hide in the shadows when you were too afraid to enter the shadows because any number of rogues with far higher body counts might mistake you, the undisputed king of villainy, for a hapless civilian.

Like a child checking under his bed for the boogeyman, the Riddler peered into the alley, trying to determine if anything was lurking in the gloom and waiting for his blood. He took a tentative step into the alley and then pulled his foot back. He still had a foot attached to his ankle, and wondered if he should risk it again.

"You're a grown man, Nigma! Are you honestly afraid of the dark? You know, logically, there are no demons, there are no monsters, there is nothing in there listening to you talk to yourself. Now stop being such an infant and _walk_."

Right, exactly. No vampires, no ghouls, no creatures of the night. But what he wouldn't give for Buffy or Van Helsing or even Peter Vincent to accompany him!

Lacking a vampire-slaying escort, the Riddler ended up running through the alley with his arms wrapped around himself in a comforting hug. Nothing grabbed him and he emerged at the other end intact. He wiped the sweat from his brow and promptly lied to himself, saying he had been as smooth as Swiss chocolate.

The Riddler pondered his next move. He had a ridiculously accurate mental map of the city and surrounding suburbs, and it only took him a few seconds to get situated. He considered his options. He could try to make it all the way downtown to the bus terminal and buy a ticket to anywhere that wasn't Gotham. That was risky and he was a bit low on cash: the jacket he'd stolen had sixteen dollars and change in the pocket. A better option would be to steal another car. It wouldn't be reported stolen until morning, and by then Nigma figured he could be either in western Ohio or south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Grand-theft auto it would be, then. With that decided, the Riddler scouted for a car. There were a few cars parked along the street, but the Riddler, still shamed over the _Hello Kitty_ scooter, could hardly afford another blow to his ego. He was not desperate enough to steal any of those junk heaps.

Something moved behind him. The Riddler felt his body locking up like that of a fainting goat. He managed to turn around before he could entirely become a statue.

The something turned out to be a middle-aged hooker who was carrying her three-inch, sequined, red high heels in one hand and was using the other hand to hold a cell phone to her ear. She had just emerged from the alley that had nearly given Nigma a heart attack, and she didn't look remotely fazed by the experience.

By chance, the Riddler was standing in front of the prostitute's car. He didn't realize this was the reason she was walking toward him, and not because she wanted one last client. He considered running to avoid the situation entirely, but decided to politely decline her offer before continuing on his hunt for a car.

"Not interested, honey." The prostitute pushed past him.

"I wasn't going to ask—"

"Got no drugs, either. Keep looking."

"I don't need drugs and I wasn't going to request your services."

The hooker turned and raised one recently waxed eyebrow. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I don't have a car anymore, thanks to Killer Croc."

"Small world. He's the reason I'm closing shop and going home."

The Riddler waited as the hooker opened her car door and sat down. He continued to wait as she started the engine and put the car in drive.

"What are you still standing there for?" she asked.

"I thought you were going to offer me a ride, since Killer Croc disrupted both our lives."

"Yeah, no. Maybe if you were taller and a little less ginger. Redheads kinda creep me out."

Without further comment, the hooker drove away, leaving the Riddler to stare after her with his mouth hanging open.

He had just been utterly humiliated and dismissed…by a forty-year-old street walker. The Riddler felt his carefully maintained ego dry up and shrivel to the size of a pea.

Awash in shame, Nigma now had no trouble finding a suitable car to steal, as riding a go-cart couldn't have damaged his ego any more. He was lucky enough to find a van that had been left unlocked, most likely on purpose and with the hope someone would be desperate enough to illegally remove it from the owner's hands. The van's owner hadn't been kind enough to leave the keys in the ignition—that would look a little too suspicious on an insurance claim—but the screwdriver sticking out from under the passenger's seat was the next best thing. Nigma jammed the screwdriver into the ignition slot and the van found it a suitable replacement for the key.

He again had wheels (though the wheels didn't have hubcaps) and wasted no time detouring around the mess that Croc had created. Free of the vehicular quagmire, Nigma drove towards the city limits. There was nothing to stop him now! He was free as a bird and... And he had condemned his only chess-mate and the closest thing he had to a friend to an unspeakable death.

He was dirt.

* * *

Nigma was dirt. Cops were dirt. The dispatcher too stupid to read the fear in the traitorous officer's voice was dirt. Handcuffs were dirt. Back seats too compact for men with long legs were dirt. Cars from the 80's were dirt. Being tortured was dirt. Dying was dirt.

But dying at the Joker's hands, that transcended dirt. That was the worst thing imaginable. That wasn't fair, goddamn it, it wasn't fair!

Crane wished he was three years old, so throwing a tantrum and then sobbing his eyes out would embarrass only his mother. Since he was a grown man, and one who was most certainly not going to sully his reputation by crying in front of a policeman, Crane had to bottle up his emotions. Unfortunately, the bottle he was pouring them all into was rather small, and it didn't seem to have a lid.

"I'm sorry. I know it amounts to nothing, but I'm sorry, Scarecrow. If my life wasn't on the line, I wouldn't be doing this," the cop said.

"Your _life_? Oh, your _figurative_ life. Your job, your rat-infested apartment, and the relationship you have with whatever creature was stupid enough to marry you. Things that won't kill you if you lose them, in other words," Crane replied.

"How'd you know I was married?"

"Wedding ring. Not that it matters. It's not like I can return and do any harm to you or your wife. I'll be dead, you see, and likely in pieces. Many pieces."

"I'll be destroyed. If the Shark spills the beans, I won't be able to get a job at Taco Bell."

"I'll try to take solace in that as I'm being tortured to death."

The cop made a choked noise of despair. He'd done some scummy things in his day—one thing scummy enough to get him involved with a lowlife like the Great White Shark—but this had to be worse. This was murder, even if he wasn't actively participating. He was handing over the victim with full understanding of what a group of lunatics planned to do to said victim.

It was almost enough to make the cop pull over to the side of the road and release Crane. The only thing that stopped him was the phone call. The Shark knew he was coming and was expecting him in ten minutes. If he didn't deliver, not only would the Shark ruin his life, but the Joker would be pissed. The cop had no doubt White would give his name to the Joker, and from the clown there would be no mercy. Even if the Shark was as crooked as Bernie Madoff, he was still a businessman and might be reasoned with or bought off. The Joker was a maniac and nothing more.

"I can't let you go, but maybe there's something I can do for you."

Crane didn't fall to his knees in gratitude, and not only because the back seat didn't give him enough room. 'Maybe' was a word like 'interesting,' in the sense it could be used to mean anything and more often than not meant nothing. In this case, Crane suspected it was a ploy to keep him from emotionally melting down while clearing the cop's conscious; when Crane was handed off to his executioners, the policeman could rest easy, knowing he hadn't actually promised to help.

"And what would that be?" Crane inquired.

"I don't know yet. I'm still thinking."

Nothing but bullshit, just as Crane had suspected.

* * *

The Joker had some time to spend before he got his Scarecrow, and he used it to hammer out the finishing details, such as whether or not White's mysterious delivery boy got to leave alive and who got to play with the Scarecrow first. The delivery boy's fate couldn't fairly be decided until the Joker met him. If the guy looked like a rat, the clown would have him iced; if he looked like he knew how to keep his yap shut, he might be spared. Figuring out who had the privilege of first whack at the Scarecrow was easier.

"Rock, paper, scissors," the Joker announced.

"For what?" Black Mask asked.

"First chance to whump Johnny."

White looked down at his hand to make sure he had the necessary fingers to play rock, paper, scissors. He mimed the actions, and though his rock and paper were lacking, they were recognizable. Satisfied that he wouldn't be at a disadvantage, Warren joined Zsasz and Black Mask.

It was a decisive one-game victory for Zsasz. Both the Shark and Black Mask had assumed the scarred serial killer would go with scissors and countered with rocks. He anticipated their move and eliminated them both with paper. Their demands for best out of three were ignored.

"Wouldn't have put money on that one," the Joker said.

The losers were then given new jobs. The Joker assigned them the duty of waiting out on the street corner until Crane was delivered, and escorting him inside. Black Mask followed the Shark, but made sure it was noted that nobody ordered him around in his own lair before he left.

Waiting was boring, so the Joker tried to strike up a conversation with Zsasz. He would have had better luck talking to the desk Zsasz was searching.

"So, Vic, what _are_ you looking for?" the Joker asked.

"Letter opener."

"Tell me if you find a bottle of scotch in there. I don't know where Black Mask put it, and I wasn't done with it."

It didn't take much ransacking for Zsasz to find what he was looking for. He triumphantly held up a letter opener that looked sharp enough to slice open more than envelopes. The Joker offered to enhance the moment by reciting a few lyrics from _Sweeney Todd_. He rescinded his offer when Zsasz glared at him and jabbed the letter opener in his direction.

"Somebody doesn't appreciate a good musical," the Joker said.

Zsasz grunted, affirming the Joker's statement. Some people had no taste, and there was no helping it.

Even if Zsasz wasn't going to respond—or do anything except run his finger down the edge of the letter opener's blade—the Joker could always monologue at him. There were a few rules the clown wanted to lay down, and he thought they'd penetrate into the weirdo's disturbed brain.

"Hey, Captain Choppy, I'm happy you finally found a friend, but I've got something to tell you." The Joker made sure he spoke loudly and clearly, as though addressing someone who was a bit deaf or mentally stunted.

"Tell it."

"You can't kill the Scarecrow. That's rule one, and that's my job and mine alone. Rule two: you can't hurt him so badly nobody else gets a turn. Because Black Mask and the Fish will whine and that will annoy me. And rule three…meh, two rules is plenty."

"No killing, and no mortal wounds. Alright."

Though the Joker knew Zsasz would forget all about the rules as soon as he was left alone with the Scarecrow, the clown was satisfied enough. If and when Zsasz tried to open Crane's throat, the Joker had a contingency plan. Until then, they'd all get a good show out of it. The Joker was a fan of Zsasz's work—the _Mona Lisa_ had nothing on a carefully posed, recently deceased Arkham guard—and it would be fun to see how Johnny would react to being cut.

And speaking of Johnny, the delivery boy had two minutes left in his half-hour window. If there wasn't a Scarecrow on the corner in the next 120 seconds, somebody wasn't getting a tip.

* * *

Author's Notes:

In _Shaun of the Dead_, one of Shaun's fantasies involves him drinking from a mug that reads "I am a genius".

Peter Vincent is the (fake) vampire hunter from _Fright Night_. Van Helsing is from _Dracula_. And Buffy, of course, is from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.

A fainting goat, when threatened, becomes rigid and falls over.


	22. A Dirty Deal

Thanks for the reviews! They're much appreciated.

* * *

A car turned onto the street. If this was the Shark's man, he was cutting it dangerously close; if this wasn't him, there was no way the mysterious delivery boy was going to make it in under a half hour. Since Black Mask had no idea what kind of car to expect, he relied on the Shark to recognize the vehicle.

As the car approached, Black Mask came to a startling revelation that dumped adrenaline into his system and had him draw his pistol instinctively: that was a police cruiser! They were being set up! The Shark apparently didn't know his associate well enough to know the son of a bitch would squeal, or was an informant the whole time, and now the trap had been sprung.

"Come on, White, we've got to go!"

"Why?" Warren asked. He wondered what had riled up Black Mask.

"Are you blind? That's a cop, and we've just escaped from Arkham."

"Yeah, that's a cop, but he's also in my pocket. You'd be surprised how many of Gotham's finest are in the same situation," White replied calmly.

"So he's not going to try anything funny? Not that I won't shoot him in the head, but I was hoping to go without a massive police manhunt for at least a few days."

"He's one man. There isn't a cop in this city stupid enough to take on any one of us single-handed."

"I still don't like it."

"Trust me."

Black Mask snorted. By all accounts, Warren White had been the most crooked man on Wall Street, which was rather like saying he'd been the most evil man in Hitler's upper echelon. Anyone who had been unlucky enough to trust White had ended up completely destitute, their savings depleted and their life ruined.

The cruiser pulled to a stop. It was time to see if White was right, or if the pig in his pocket had more guts than brains. Black Mask waited, his gun openly exposed, for the Shark to amble around the front of the car and approach the driver's side window. The cop rolled down the window and he and White exchanged words too quietly for Black Mask to hear.

White stepped back and allowed the cop to open his door and exit the vehicle. Well aware Black Mask didn't trust him, and wouldn't hesitate to kill him, the officer wondered if the risk was worth it. Even if he did what he was planning to do, the chances it would do anything to help the Scarecrow were slim to none. It might even make it worse for him, though how being tortured to death by the likes of the Great White Shark, Black Mask, and the Joker could be exacerbated, he didn't want to imagine.

The expression on Crane's face, while soul-crushing, was not foreign to the cop. He'd seen it before on criminals who knew their lives were really and truly over, that the system had finally caught them for good, and they'd spend the rest of their miserable lives in Blackgate. It was a look only someone who'd forsaken all hope could manufacture. It was not a good look for a human being, even one as nefarious as the Scarecrow, to be wearing.

The cop moved to open Crane's door, but White pushed it closed with one mutilated hand. Warren flashed his unwilling crony a ghastly smile. The fiendish grin chilled the cop to the core of his being, and, despite his years in law enforcement and the things he'd seen, he shrank away like a frightened animal.

"Let me make sure it's Crane. It would be a shame if you kidnapped some poor citizen who just happened to look like him," White said. "That would be very bad for both of you."

"You talked to him on the phone. It's him," the cop replied.

"I had a man scream in my ear." White pointed to the side of his head, where there was no actual auricle. "I don't know what Crane sounds like when he screams—I'm sure that'll change—but I do know his face. Now, unless you want a certain envelope to find its way to a certain commissioner's desk, step back."

The cop nodded and acquiesced, moving away from the door so the Shark could peer in. Crane considered turning his face, but couldn't find a reason to drag out the inevitable. If he tried to conceal his identity, it would be only too easy for the cop to drag him out, beat him senseless, and then present him to White for identification.

"Yeah, that's the Scarecrow."

"Want me to get him out for you?" the officer asked.

"Sure, why not? You're feeling helpful tonight, aren't you?"

"I just want to be done with you."

"But I like having you work for me. It's so convenient, having a good cop under your thumb. I'm tempted to keep you."

There was not a color to describe the shade the cop turned upon hearing Warren's words. This new shade, brought on by absolute horror, was so ashen it made milk look like charcoal by comparison.

"I suppose it's not fair to amend out deal now. Bring Scarecrow inside and our contract's complete." White held out his right hand.

As though he was shaking hands with a cactus, the cop gingerly touched three fingers to White's palm. The Shark responded by reaching forward and grasping the offered hand in a proper shake. His skin was cool to the touch, and the missing fingers were obvious in his grip. The cop could not suppress a revolted shudder.

"And that seals it. You're your own man again as soon as Scarecrow's out of your car," White said.

The Scarecrow was out of the car in three seconds. He hardly had time to realize what was happening before he was hauled out of his seat. One moment his legs were cramped in the backseat, and the next he was staring the Great White Shark in the face.

"Here he is," the cop said. As he shoved Crane in White's direction, he discretely forced something tiny into the Scarecrow's hand. Crane clamped down on the object automatically. He would have time later to figure out what it was and why the cop had smuggled it to him.

Without further ado, the cop blazed out of there. He needed to distance himself from what he'd done, or he'd be sick. He was feverish with shame and disgust; he'd betrayed his sacred duties as a policeman, had made himself an associate to a crime most heinous, and was unworthy of the life he'd sacrificed the Scarecrow to preserve.

Crane and the Shark regarded each other steadily. Though his heart was thudding around in his chest like an alien eager to burst out, Crane was outwardly impassive. He was going to retain his dignity for as long as possible, and it would not be a wannabe Gordon Gekko who laid him low.

"Eyeball each other later. The Joker's getting impatient," Black Mask said. He pointed back towards his hideout, where, through the window, the Joker could be seen throwing a tantrum.

Black Mask and the Shark were ready to get physical if Crane refused to move or tried to run, but he proved cooperative. Trying to escape now, when his captors were ready for it, would be futile. Crane was prepared to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself, and until he knew what gift the cop had left him. He couldn't risk drawing attention to the precious whatever-it-was, so he kept his hands still and kept the object secreted between his thumb and index.

Men of less poise would have taunted Crane with clichéd jeers of "dead man walking." Since they were all professionals, and had been present at enough murders for death to become routine, nobody felt the need to make jibes at anyone else's approaching encounter with mortality.

As soon as Crane and his escorts stepped through the door, the Joker ambushed them. The clown was as excited as a dog whose owners had finally returned just when the dog was sure they'd be gone forever.

"Johnny-boy! Mop Man! Long time no see. How's my favorite nerd?" the Joker asked.

Crane refused to answer to Mop Man, Johnny-boy, or anyone's favorite nerd. He glared at the Joker and made it clear he was not going to play any of the clown's games. If they could just get down to the torturing and killing, that would be much appreciated.

"Yeah, it's nice to see you, too. I know you haven't got any friends of your own, so I invited some of mine down to play with you. Wasn't that considerate of me? You're going to have such a great play date."

If given the choice between the maniacs assembled in the room and an entire village dying of Ebola, Crane would have gladly taken the disease-ridden villagers. Dying of contagious hemorrhagic fever couldn't be any worse than what this lot had planned for him.

"Since Vic won rock, paper, scissors, he gets to be your buddy first," the Joker said.

Somehow, Crane had managed to overlook the skulking man in the corner. Zsasz was the last thing many people overlooked, as the scars on the serial killer's body testified. Having Zsasz in his sights didn't relax Crane any; now that he knew the psychopath was over there, lurking like some antisocial teenager, Crane had trouble focusing on anything else. Taking his eyes off Zsasz, even for a second, seemed like inviting an attack.

"You're gonna get along great! I can see it already. Why don't we put these two kiddies in the playroom so they can have their fun?" The Joker hadn't seen very much of Black Mask's lair, but if the crispy criminal didn't have a soundproof room that was easy to hose down, the clown would eat the desk chair he loved so much.

"This way, and don't do anything to him until we're off the carpet," Black Mask replied.

The room that Black Mask led them to looked like it had been designed by Dexter Morgan. There were no windows—and therefore no unwanted witnesses—the walls had been draped with plastic sheeting, the floor had a handy drain in the center of it, and the sparse furniture was stainless steel and gleaming. People had died, and died badly, in this room.

The only major flaw with the room was its size. While the close confines made the relationship between one man and his victim all the more personal, stuffing five people into the space was a little awkward. Not to mention potentially messy. If the blood started flying, standing in the room would be like sitting in the front bleachers at Sea World.

Warren White raised his concerns. They were easily assuaged when Black Mask gestured to the camera mounted on the wall.

"Full color, full audio. I like to record my sessions and save them later. We can watch it next door," Black Mask said.

Nobody had to ask what he did with those recordings. They were either shown to whoever Black Mask planned to kill as the most gruesome foreshadowing ever, or they served as his pictures of Lily. Neither option encouraged discussion.

With the spectators gone, Crane and Zsasz had the whole room to themselves. Crane wasted no time putting as much distance between himself and his roommate as possible. He needed to buy time, at least long enough to figure out what he was supposed to do with whatever he was still clutching. If he could get his back to the wall, he could hide his hands from view.

"This isn't your usual modus operandi," Crane said. He hoped to get Zsasz talking and distracted, so the killer wouldn't use whatever he had in his hands on Crane's body.

"No, but when an opportunity presents itself, it's best to seize it. If I'd stayed in my cell, four poor zombies would still be shuffling around," Zsasz responded.

Crane barely suppressed a moan. Zombies? Did he really have to hear about the zombies? During his time as a doctor at Arkham, he'd heard some truly depraved theories and philosophies from patients. But not even the man who insisted the President's entire Cabinet (but not the President himself, oddly enough) were cleverly disguised aliens could compete with Zsasz and the zombies. Nothing was as painful as enduring a rant about how everyone was a zombie, all those zombies were living pointless, miserable lives, and the nicest thing to do for them was cut their throats. Except for maybe the actual throat-cutting, Crane supposed. That was probably just a nudge more painful.

"Zombies, Victor, are an easily explainable phenomena."

"Of course they are. Everyone is born a zombie, lives as a zombie, and some of them are lucky enough to cross my path."

"No one who crosses your path is lucky."

Instead of the anger Crane had expected, Zsasz regarded him with pity and patience. It was the look a kind and dedicated teacher would give a student who simply didn't have the intellect to grasp the class.

"I don't expect you to understand, at least not yet. Let me show you." Zsasz took a step towards Crane.

Crane tried to take a step back as well, but found the wall directly in his path. Since he lacked a portal gun, and couldn't Hulk-Smash his way through the Sheetrock, he had to find some other way of eluding Zsasz.

Unable to go backwards, and unwilling to meet Zsasz head-on, Crane decided to slide down the wall. Maybe he could play keep-away until he had an epiphany and discovered the grand secret of the mystery prize in his hand, or—more likely—until Zsasz got sick of the charade and stabbed him a few times.

Zsasz had nothing against being led on a chase. This wouldn't be good one—there was nowhere for Crane to hide, and no way for him to fight back—but it was entertaining enough. If he had to pursue and subdue his prey beforehand, that at fine.

The wall abruptly ended in a corner and Crane found himself pinned. Before he could scoot further, Zsasz darted forward with remarkable speed. He grabbed Crane by the throat and squeezed until Crane was reduced to gasping and wheezing desperately for breath.

Allowed just enough oxygen to remain conscious, Crane could do nothing but watch as Zsasz displayed the letter opener he'd pilfered from Black Mask's desk. The letter opener was not the most intimidating weapon Crane had ever been threatened with, but its four-inch blade was sharp and long enough to inflict a lethal wound. To show how easily he could end his victim's life, Zsasz ran the knife down Crane's cheek, drawing a line that stung but wasn't deep enough to bleed.

It felt strange, cutting with the intent _not_ to kill. Strange, but not altogether unpleasant. There was something alluring about how Crane's breath caught in his throat, how his pulse pounded beneath Zsasz's fingers, how his body had gone rigid as the knife had scratched him. Yes, all those things were rather nice.

So nice, in fact, that Zsasz decided to cut Crane again, this time just a little deeper. And once more couldn't hurt, could it? No, of course not.

* * *

This was, by far, the best thing he'd ever seen on television. It was better than midget wrestling, Mecha-Streisand, and the assassination of JFK combined.

The Joker laughed madly and pointed at the TV screen as though it was displaying the funniest thing in the world. The Joker was getting so much sick enjoyment out of the slow, deliberate exsanguination of Jonathan Crane that Black Mask and the Great White Shark were beginning to get a little uncomfortable. Neither of them was remotely squeamish, and both had been known to take great pleasure in others' woe, but the soundtrack the clown provided with his braying was disconcerting. Nobody was supposed to find torture that _funny_.

Abruptly, the Joker sat up straight and said, "I want popcorn."

"No way," Black Mask replied.

"But this is so great! Popcorn will make it complete."

"I'm not going to get you popcorn."

"You've got goons, haven't you? They're not doing anything! Make them make me popcorn."

Black Mask, shaking his head the whole time, pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed a phone downstairs. Once one of his bumbling men answered, he tried to order the minion to find some popcorn. The second he opened his mouth, the Joker began shushing him as though he'd started a raucous conversation in the middle of a crowded movie theater.

"I can't get your damned popcorn if you don't shut up!" Black Mask shouted.

"I can't hear!" the Joker whined.

"That's because you're shouting!"

"No, it's because _you're_ shouting!"

Unable to believe what he was doing, Black Mask stormed from the room to make his call out in the hallway. As he was leaving, the Joker yelled that he wanted a Coke and some Goobers, too. Black Mask told him to go to hell and take his Goobers with him.

With Black Mask out on a snack run, the Joker turned his attention back to the television. He hoped he hadn't missed anything good. Nope, it looked like he was just in time to see Zsasz finally break the Scarecrow's code of silence. Johnny-boy sure did make some great noises.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Gordon Gekko is the villainous stockbroker from the movie _Wall Street_.

Dexter Morgan is a serial killer who kills serial killers on the show_ Dexter_. He often prepares rooms with plastic sheeting for easy cleanup of his victims.

_Pictures of Lily_ is a song by The Who in which a teenage boy is given pinup "pictures of Lily" by his dad. The woman, Lily, has been dead since 1929.

The portal gun, in the video game _Portal_, creates portals that allow the user to, among other things, pass through walls and fall through the ceiling and floor in an infinite loop.

Mecha-Streisand is a mechanized, giant, Godzilla-like version of Barbara Streisand from _South Park_.


	23. A Quick Trip to Nowhere

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* * *

Where were they? Why weren't they back yet? What in the name of all things green was Harley sobbing like that for? They were just _toys_, and not even real ones!

"Harley, watch something happier!" Ivy snapped, far sharper than intended.

"But Red! Woody saved him and he just left them there! He's a bad bear!"

"He's a stuffed bear in a movie! You could be crying over the clear-cutting of the rainforest, or overpopulation or fossil fuels! Things actually worth the tears."

"Look at 'em, Red! Now they're all holdin' hands 'cause they think they're gonna die!"

Ivy stormed out of the living room and found there was nowhere in the house she couldn't hear Harley's stupid movie or stupider tears. Unable to find relief inside, Ivy went outside, slamming the door as she exited.

The night air did nothing to cool her. If anything, the waning moon only filled her with more worry. She understood that Crane and Nigma's trip would take a few hours, but the night was almost over now. What if Batman found them? Those two, unarmed and not particularly sturdy, would fall after a punch apiece. She should have killed that damned, winged menace when she had the chance!

The Bat was a worrisome enough thought, but Ivy knew there was worse lurking out there. If the Joker really had recruited the likes of Black Mask and the Great White Shark—and there was no reason to doubt Nigma's claims—then half of the criminals in Gotham would be on the lookout for Crane in an attempt to win their boss' favor. Ivy understood that Crane was as street-smart as they came, but he was still one man against an army of thugs. As the old saying went, it was best to never underestimate stupid people in large numbers.

In the end, it all boiled down to what Ivy was going to do about her missing Scarecrow. What _could_ she do for him? If he was in Arkham, he'd find a way to escape before the month was out. If he'd been kidnapped and brought before the Joker, her options were next to non-existent. She didn't know where the clown was hiding, and even with her plants and her poisons she couldn't launch a one-woman assault against him and his powerful allies. She had no way to track Crane, had no idea where he and Nigma had been going, and had no one to help her.

Until she had more information, the only thing she could do was hold down the fort and wait. That, and send Harley to bed so she could get some relief from Pixar's sadism.

* * *

The sadism Crane was experiencing was just a little worse than the sadism Pixar was capable of dishing out. Pixar was at least required to keep things PG. Zsasz had no such limitations.

Crane winced as the fourteenth cut was made into his unwilling skin. He was trying very, _very_ hard not count, because it was making him panic, but there was little else to occupy his mind. Every time he tried to drift elsewhere, Zsasz seemed to sense it and brought him back with a quick slash.

Those fourteen—make it fifteen, damn it—individual cuts were maddening. They were like paper cuts on the sensitive webbing between fingers, but worse. Unfortunately, not much worse. Nowhere near bad enough for Crane to start getting giddy from blood loss. Just bad enough to hurt like a bastard and keep Crane from escaping into his own head.

If he couldn't escape mentally, he'd have to do it physically before this act went on much longer. There was something positively demonic growing in Zsasz's eyes, and as much as Crane didn't want to be tortured any longer, he didn't want his throat opened, either.

Crane wished he had a lock pick. He'd practiced getting out of handcuffs plenty of times, both in real life and in his spare time, and was an expert at it. Unfortunately, without so much as a bent piece of wire, he had nothing to jam into the lock.

Maybe he didn't have quite _nothing_. Whatever the cop had shoved into his hands was certainly solid and thin, and while not very long, it might work. Trying was better than standing there helplessly as Zsasz, with an increasing fanaticism, went at him.

Crane's long, skilled fingers maneuvered the object into the lock. The two seemed to fit together perfectly. Crane considered why that would be before realization hit him on the head like a falling safe in an old cartoon.

The cop had given him the key to the handcuffs, and he'd been too thick to figure it out. He'd had the means to his escape clutched in his fist, he'd run his fingers over its contours, and he hadn't realized what it was. Crane, had his hands been free, would have slapped himself in the face.

One little turn of the key and Crane was able to ease the handcuffs open. He slipped his hands free and waited for an opportunity. As much as he wanted to swing the cuffs into Zsasz's face and run for the door, he needed the right moment. Until that moment of distraction arrived, and Crane was sure he'd have a good chance of breaking the killer's cheekbone, he continued to play the role of the suffering stoic.

The moment Crane was waiting for was either stuck in traffic or apathetic to his misery. Now that his hands were free, the waiting was even worse. It took all of Crane's considerable willpower not to forget the plan and start swinging the handcuffs like a medieval flail.

Even if Crane had been making semaphore signals with his newly liberated hands, there was a chance Zsasz wouldn't have noticed. All of the killer's attention was focused on the point where his knife met whatever part of Crane he felt like cutting. Currently, it was Crane's right arm. Zsasz pressed the letter opener against his victim's skin, angled the blade for the cleanest slash, and then with one deft motion drew a straight line of blood.

Crane couldn't take much more of this. Yes, he had a high tolerance to pain, having been beaten on since childhood, but these scattered cuts were too much. He'd wait another minute, and if Zsasz refused to do so much as blink, so be it. Crane would hit him and hope for the best.

Thirty-eight seconds into the countdown, the distraction Crane had been praying for arrived. The door swung open and before his empty head could tell him he was in the wrong room, Black Mask's goon announced that he'd found some peanut M&Ms, a bag of microwavable popcorn, and a bottle of Coke.

Zsasz turned his head to face the goon at the door, and Crane finally saw his opportunity. He clutched one of the cuffs and let the other dangle from the connecting chain. Before Zsasz realized what was happening, Crane swung the handcuffs at the killer's nose.

Crane wasn't exactly Gogo Yubari, but his strike was well-aimed and powered by fear, disgust, and anger. The cuff caught Zsasz across the nose and barely missed his eye. With a shout of surprise and pain he twisted away, releasing his hold on Crane's throat. While Zsasz clutched at his face, Crane bolted for the door.

Black Mask's goon stood on in dumb confusion. His puny mind had finally registered that he'd gotten the wrong room, but he still hadn't finished processing the scene before him. When Crane shoved by him, spilling the snacks he held onto the floor, the goon could only look from Crane's retreating back to the popcorn that had been scattered from its bag.

Chaos had descended in the Joker's private cinema. The clown had Black Mask by the lapels and was shaking him, demanding to know why his Scarecrow was gone, how he was going to get him back, and what was going to be done to replace the popcorn strewn all over the floor. Black Mask, not one to accept such treatment, had pulled his pistol and was trying to aim it steadily despite the constant jarring. The Great White Shark had the good sense to know he wanted no part of the tussle, and had moved near the door. If Black Mask started shooting, he was ready to run.

"I just got him back and now he's gone again and it's all your fault!" the Joker shouted.

"Let go of me or I'm going to blow your head off!" Black Mask jammed his pistol against the Joker's forehead.

"And my popcorn! Look at it! I can't eat it off the floor! We're past the five-second rule! It's covered in germs by now!"

"Forget your popcorn, clown! Get your hands off me and I'll take care of it. Crane's not going anywhere."

Reluctantly, the Joker released Black Mask, who straightened his suit with a huff.

"I've got security, and even if he does make it outside, where's he going to go? He's got no weapons, no vehicle, and he's bleeding. You'll get your toy back. Look, Zsasz has gone after him, too."

"That might not be a good thing," White quipped. "Not if you want Crane back alive."

A dead Mop Man was just as useless as a Mop Man on the lam, and the Joker was so concerned about losing his plaything that he decided to personally supervise Johnny's recovery. Leaving the Shark and Black Mask, who were both far too nonchalant about this five-alarm emergency, the Joker entered the hall. He passed by the room that had held Crane, but now only held the idiot henchman. The clown made a mental note to come back, make the goon eat all the fallen popcorn, and then shove the box of M&Ms down his throat.

Once the Joker was gone, the goon emerged and tried his delivery a second time. He found the right room, and knocked on the door the Joker had left open.

"I got the stuff you wanted, Boss," the goon said, holding up the box of candy and the soda.

"How did I ever hire someone so stupid?" Black Mask asked.

"Huh?"

"Did you ever take an IQ test?"

"Nah."

"Good, because you would've failed it! You looked like an idiot, so _I_ looked like an idiot! I do not like to look like an idiot! I should kill you!"

The nameless henchman might have been stupid enough to let Crane run right by him, but he wasn't stupid enough not to be scared shitless in the presence of his boss. He'd seen Black Mask kill people—one shot, straight between the eyes—and he knew about the videos his boss made with the people he didn't off so quickly. Unless he wanted to find himself starring in such a snuff film, he had to do something to appease his psychotic employer.

"I'm real sorry. I thought it was the right room and I didn't know what to do about that guy. I mean, you walk into a room, and there's two guys, and one's cutting the other, it throws you off. You know? I froze up."

"Yeah, I think we all noticed. Just get this mess cleaned up, and go find some more popcorn so that clown won't bitch when he gets back," Black Mask said.

Thankful that he was forgiven, and hadn't even had to grovel for his pardon, the goon ran off to find a broom and a new bag of popcorn. He was careful to go in the opposite direction Crane had run. He didn't want to find any more trouble. Black Mask did not love stupidity, and he didn't believe in third chance, either.

The henchman's luck might have held, but Crane's had not. He'd done his best to remember the route he'd taken when he'd been brought up to the soundproof room, and he'd done an excellent job of it. He'd even managed to find the elevator. That was where his luck disintegrated. One of Black Mask's more capable henchmen, armed with a baseball bat, was blocking the elevator doors.

Crane came to a screeching halt and, like a drunk trying to avoid a DUI checkpoint, looked for any place he could turn. There was a hallway a few feet behind him, and as much as Crane didn't want to turn around and discover Zsasz had caught up to him, he had no choice. He ran for the auxiliary hall and hoped it led to the stairs.

The hallway led to a pair of locked doors, and a window with bars on the outside. Crane considered trying the window anyway, on the off chance the bars were loose or were the kind that kept burglars out but had an emergency release that allowed the people inside to escape if there was a fire.

He never even got the window open.

Like a big cat pouncing on its prey, Zsasz leapt on Crane, knocking him to the ground. Crane tried to scramble to his feet, but his efforts were squashed when the killer stomped down on the center of his back. Crane collapsed to the floor and before he could struggle anymore, Zsasz dug a knee into his spine and kept him down.

Helpless, unable to attack or defend, Crane could only wait for the inevitable. He rested his cheek against the carpet and prayed his life didn't flash before his eyes when he died. The last thing he wanted to see was a recap of his miserable existence.

"You broke by doze," Zsasz said.

Crane felt a moment of wicked pleasure. Yes, he certainly had! Judging by the sound of Zsasz's voice, thickened by nasal passages full of blood, that nose had been well and truly smashed.

"You broke by doze," Zsasz repeated, and Crane realized he wanted a response. Too bad. He wasn't getting one.

Zsasz was not amused by Crane's taciturnity. It transcended rudeness to hit a man in the face, lead him on a chase, and then refuse to even acknowledge the harm done to him. It was outright insulting, the more Zsasz contemplated it. Anyone who would do such a thing deserved to be punished until he saw the error of his ways.

He'd been careful to keep hold of the letter opener, and now Zsasz pressed the blade against Crane's throat.

This was it, then. The curtains were coming down, the lights were going out, the audience was going home. Crane was disappointed but not surprised. He'd never expected to reach a ripe old age, or to die peacefully. That was a luxury rarely afforded to people in his line of work.

Having accepted his fate, Crane was all the more surprised when Zsasz withdrew the knife. Crane waited in the heavy silence for the killer to explain himself.

The explanation came not in words, but in actions. Zsasz brought the letter opener down, digging the blade into Crane's shoulder until it hit bone.

He shivered with pleasure as Crane thrashed and screamed beneath him. Oh, this was such a deliciously bad thing he was doing, so cruel and yet so irresistible.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Gogo Yubari is a Japanese schoolgirl from _Kill Bill_ who fought using a ball and chain.

The five-second rule states you can drop food and if you pick it up with five seconds, it's safe to eat. It's complete bullshit, of course.

What's that you say? This story is in the "Humor" section and yet the past few chapters have been nothing but Crane being tortured? Huh, ain't that something?


	24. For Want of a Sandwich

Sorry about the delay. Who would have thought the last year of college would require actual work? I will try to get the next chapter up sooner rather than later, but I can't promise anything.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

If Edward Nigma had been parked outside a playground and had been caught staring at children with the same intensity as he was staring at the payphone across the parking lot, a lynch mob of parents would have attacked him. Since it was four o'clock in the morning and there were no children to be had, at least it was safe to leer.

He'd been sitting in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour convenience store for more than a half hour, and he hadn't been able to work up the nerve to cross the asphalt and pick up the phone. He hadn't been able to leave, either, thanks to his guilt. He was trapped between calling the police on the off chance that would help, forgetting Jonathan had ever existed, and remaining exactly where he was. Every time he thought about his options, he chose the third and stayed in frozen stasis like Nora Fries.

"I am going to get out of this van, walk over to the phone, and call the police."

"And what are they going to do about it? An anonymous phone call is not going to organize a raid against the Joker, Black Mask, and the Great White Shark. Between the three of them, they own half the police force, anyway."

"Crane's going to die, and it's my fault."

"Crane's going to die because he's not as smart as I am."

"But if he dies, I'll be _bored_! Who am I going to play chess with? Jervis?"

"If worst comes to worst, I can always teach Harley to play…"

"Harley? That would be like playing against a blonde rock! No, Crane's the only one who remotely approaches my intellect."

Like Gollum and Smeagol bickering over the precious, the Riddler continued on in this bipolar manner for another five minutes. He was such a master debater that he managed to convince himself he needed Jonathan or he'd risk a lifetime of eternal boredom, and that the police were not going to help him. In short, he had talked himself into a corner, and couldn't find a way out. Sometimes he really was too clever for his own good.

"There isn't a puzzle I can't crack and this is no exception. I simply have to stand back and analyze it from a new perspective," the Riddler reasoned.

"I can't abandon him, if only because he's a moderately talented chess player. But no one will help me rescue him. I don't even know if he needs rescuing. The Joker may not have found him. Yet. But it is inevitable. _I_ could surely elude the clown, but Crane isn't me."

That was the first step, then: to find out if Crane had been captured or not. Luckily, Nigma already knew where the Joker was hiding out, and where Crane would be brought if anyone found him.

Eternally grateful to get away from the convenience store and the taunting phone, the Riddler started the van and pulled out of the parking lot. He would have little trouble skirting Black Mask's surveillance and security systems. He'd done it once, and doing it a second time would be like taking a test he knew all the answers to. Once he was inside, he could perform his espionage and glean Crane's fate. Depending on the results, he'd weave a plan from there.

* * *

The Joker wasn't exactly having buyer's remorse—if only because he hadn't actually paid for anything—but he was regretting not just breaking Johnny's legs the second he'd had the chance. He should have known his Mop Man wouldn't cooperate. The stick-man was selfish like that. It was all about him, all the time. Johnny's physical wellbeing didn't trump the Joker's desire to torture him, no matter what he thought in that nerdy head of his.

"Did you see a geek and a…a Zsasz run by here?" the Joker asked the goon stationed in front of the elevator.

"Yeah," the goon replied.

"Where'd they go?"

The goon pointed down a hallway. "That way."

"Thanks. Oh, and give me that bat. You never know what kind of people you're going to run into in a place like this."

Now armed with a big stick, the Joker ran down the hall and soon found his runaway Scarecrow. As he'd expected, Johnny and Zsasz weren't having tea.

"I always thought the point of five-finger fillet was to _miss_ the fingers. Boy, have I been playing that game wrong!" the Joker said.

Neither Crane nor Zsasz replied, or made any acknowledgment of the Joker's presence.

"What, am I talking to Helen Keller? Or were both of you born without a sense of humor?" The Joker didn't think his entrance had ever received such a total lack of attention. He was used to screaming, fainting, and mad rushes to doors he'd surreptitiously locked. Complete disregard was foreign to him.

The Joker considered introducing the baseball bat to the back of Zsasz's head, and probably would have at least given the serial killer a none-too-gentle swat if Crane hadn't emitted a barely-stifled scream. Suddenly being acknowledged wasn't half as important as getting Johnny to make that noise again. The Joker couldn't tell what Zsasz had done to wring the cry from Crane—the killer's back was blocking his view—but he intended to find out.

Instead of pretending he was Donny Donowitz, the Joker settled for tapping Zsasz on the shoulder. The killer, careful to keep his knee in the square center of Crane's back, turned around to see who was bothering him. Zsasz made no attempt to hide the letter opener, which was now very bloody, and made it obvious he was ready to use it on whoever had been stupid enough to interrupt.

"Are you and Johnny having fun without me?" the Joker asked.

"This isn't fun; this is personal. He broke my nose and he refuses to apologize," Zsasz replied.

"That's just like him. Johnny-boy wouldn't even let me use him as a shield. And he wouldn't buy me spaghetti in a can, either."

"Tragic," Zsasz muttered.

"It is! His selfishness knows no bounds. He needs to learn the error of his ways. If you're going to torture an apology out of him for your nose, get one for my spaghetti," the Joker said.

"With pleasure."

Zsasz was about to commence the torturing when the Joker shouted for him to stop. The killer froze with the letter opener poised inches from Crane.

"What do you want now?"

"Commemorative pictures," the Joker said.

"What? I don't want to drag him all the way back to that room."

"But this needs to be recorded for posterity. The Internet, no, the _world_ needs to see it!"

The Joker would not be satisfied until Crane's misery was preserved on tape, and Zsasz surrendered to the overwhelming force of the clown's insane demands. He removed his knee from Crane's back and waited, tense, to see if Crane would try anything.

Crane made no attempt to stand, let alone fight back or run again. If not for the harsh, ragged panting of his breath, he might have been mistaken for dead. There certainly was enough blood staining his clothing to suggest he'd been murdered.

"And here we go again. Johnny, you can't deny future generations the chance to see this. Now. Get. Up!" The Joker punctuated his last three words with sharp kicks.

Crane moaned at the triple impact to his ribs. Playing dead was not going to save him. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his hands and knees. While Crane's legs had escaped unscathed thus far, Zsasz had slashed his arms and shoulders without mercy. Shifting positions exacerbated the pain these numerous cuts, some shallow and some deep, caused.

Having any weight pressing down on his injured arms was torture. Though he was in no hurry to be dragged back to the room he'd escaped from, Crane couldn't bear staying on his hands and knees any longer. He staggered to his feet and waited for one of his captors to make the next move.

Zsasz, still sore over the whole being bashed in the face with a pair of handcuffs incident, wasted no time grabbing Crane and manhandling him down the hall. The Joker walked behind at a more sedate pace, whistling.

It didn't take them long to arrive back at the soundproof room, not with Zsasz frog-marching Crane with such vigor. The Joker strolled in a moment later. Forever the showman, he approached the camera mounted on the wall and waved into it. While Zsasz forced Crane into a chair, the Joker shouted into the camera that the show would resume as soon as the popcorn arrived and if it wasn't delivered in five minutes, heads were going to be repurposed as bowling balls.

Zsasz had no interest in popcorn—and the Joker wouldn't have shared, anyway—and he wanted to get back to the bloody business at hand. He still had no apology and he still couldn't breathe through his nose, which was really starting to swell. As soon as he had Crane groveling at his feet, he was going to need an icepack.

The only one relieved by the delay was Crane. Though it wasn't much of a reprieve, he'd take every second he could get. Hunched over, Crane tried to focus on anything but the immense pain that raked through his body. No matter how hard he concentrated on pleasant things—Batman suffering the crippling effects of fear toxin, the Joker being eaten alive by Harley's hyenas, Poison Ivy in general—his stupid nerves kept shouting louder than he could ignore. It was like putting his fingers in his ears and trying to forget he was standing in the middle of an airport runway.

The Joker, seeing Crane slumped over with pain, decided to poke at his pet nerd. The clown walked over and stood next to Crane. Crane, his head lowered, heard his tormentor approach but refused to look at him.

"Hey, Johnny, how do you like the friends I found for you? Aren't you glad I went through all the trouble of finding people who could stand being around you? It wasn't easy, let me tell you."

Crane didn't bother raising his head. He was miserable enough, and the clown's presence only made him wearier. He'd heard all these digs before, and they were inconsequential when compared to the very real and physical pain that Zsasz and his letter opener had inflicted.

"You do have plenty of Facebook friends, though. That's probably because the Internet is full of nerds and losers. To them, you're like king of the nerds! With your elves, and math, and wizards—"

"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't got a Facebook account," Crane said.

"I know, so I made you one. I think I'm qualified to represent you."

Suddenly, the letter opener didn't sound quite so bad. It was sharp and nasty, but at least it didn't have the level of humor exhibited by a thirteen-year-old hacking his friend's social networking profile and changing his sexual orientation to gay.

"I hate you," Crane said.

"No, you like me. It says so on your account."

"Why won't you just kill me?"

"Because you're much more fun alive. Though I do have some great ideas for what to do with your head…"

Crane sunk lower into his seat. Talking to the Joker, even for a minute, was far more horrible than being stabbed. Charles Dickens was right. Mental torture was incomparably worse than physical pain.

"Cheer up, Mop Man! It's not like you're going anywhere anytime soon." The Joker patted Crane on the back, his hand whapping down hard on a particularly nasty cut. Crane stopped slouching and blocked the Joker's access to the worst of his injuries.

"You're no fun," the Joker said, pouting.

"I've been tortured! Excuse me for not offering to play Twister!" Crane snapped.

"You'd never play Twister with me, anyway. You wouldn't even get me New York Super Fudge Chunk."

"I thought you wanted Goobers. Damn it, I gotta pay better attention."

The Joker spun around and saw the goon had returned and was bearing the gift of empty calories. Crane's bitching was nowhere near as important as the popcorn the Joker had been waiting for. Completely ignoring Crane and his indignation, the Joker hurried over to the goon and began sorting through his goodies.

As penance for screwing up and dropping the Joker's popcorn, the goon had brought every scrap of food he could find. Not being a particularly insightful individual, the goon had raided the community fridge, taking anything regardless of labels or claims of ownership. While that might have gotten him dirty looks in an office, here it would get him beaten senseless and locked in a dumpster.

"Popcorn! You're my new best friend. Ooh, and snack cakes. Is that a Twinkie? It is! And what's this? A sandwich. Ew, this has lettuce on it." The Joker threw the offensive bagged sandwich on the floor.

The goon had come bearing two armloads of food, and it took the Joker all of a minute to sort the pile into things he wanted to eat and things that could be mulched for all he cared. When he was finished, he sat down and took up his new bag of popcorn and his sponge cake. He shoveled popcorn into his trap with glee. Unable to speak with his mouth so stuffed, he motioned for Zsasz to commence the bloodletting.

Zsasz, grinning, stalked towards Crane. If there was anything creepier than Zsasz, it was Zsasz looking happy.

Crane discovered his first instinct, much to his disgust, was to cower in his chair. He had slunk low like a beaten dog before his pride gave him a stern slap. Coming back to his senses, Crane realized there had to be _something_ he could do to delay or avoid another round with the letter opener. He had no more than ten seconds to figure out what magic words would stop the approaching psychopath, and settled on the only one that made sense.

"Wait!" Crane shouted.

"What for?" Zsasz demanded.

"I…I want that sandwich."

"No. Now be still."

Alright, so that hadn't worked. Crane could feel his hands start to sweat. This was not good. Zsasz would reach him in a few steps unless he figured something out. He needed a distraction. He needed a ruse. He needed—

The Riddler sneaking by the door?

* * *

Author's Notes:

Donny Donowitz is a character from the movie _Inglourious Basterds_. His specialty was crushing Nazi skulls with a baseball bat.

Charles Dickens, upon seeing inmates kept in constant solitary confinement in Eastern State Penitentiary, found "tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body."


	25. The Universe is a Fickle Mistress

Well, I'm out of school for a month, and I intend to use that month to get as much of this fic done as possible. I've learned my lesson about predicting the number of remaining chapters, but this story is definitely closer to the end than the beginning. The plot lines will begin to converge.

Boring stuff over! Thanks for the reviews, and for the patience, and for not sending me threats or virtual shaking fists.

* * *

The Riddler had not been expecting this. Finding Jonathan Crane on the precipice of being tortured—and obviously not for the first time, either, if all that blood was anything to go by—was not quite as shocking as walking in on Richard Dawkins and Fred Phelps reconciling their differences but was more than enough to stop the Riddler in his tracks. He stared into the room, and had the misfortune to lock eyes with Crane. It was worse than those ASPCA commercials with sad dogs and Sarah McLachlan.

Though this was, at most, one-percent his fault, the Riddler was accosted by a disproportionate heap of guilt. Crane's pitiful, beseeching expression didn't exactly ease Nigma's conscience, either. Any attempt to rationalize what he'd done failed in the face of Crane's miserable state.

There was only one way to remedy the situation: save Crane. Nigma knew he'd never have a good night's sleep again if he didn't at least try. He also knew he couldn't charge into the room without any kind of weaponry unless he wanted to experience what it was like to be gutted with a letter opener. Before he could mount any kind of rescue, he needed to arm himself.

Hoping Crane was good with charades, Nigma pointed down the hall, mimed walking with his fingers, pretended to pick something up, and then walked his fingers back. He never got to see if Crane comprehended his message because Zsasz chose that moment to reintroduce Crane to the old ultra-violence.

The Riddler skirted around Black Mask's pathetically inept security and arrived back at his van without incident. He threw open the driver's side door and began ransacking the van, looking for anything threatening enough to guarantee Crane's freedom. All he found under the driver's seat was twenty-two cents in loose change and a burrito wrapper. The passenger's seat yielded an old, well-thumbed pornographic magazine. Nigma supposed, if he wasn't so disgusted by the prospect of touching the magazine, he could always roll it up and threaten his enemies the way one would threaten a bad dog. Then he could get shot right between the eyes when Black Mask tired of his shenanigans.

The front seats were complete failures, so Nigma hopped into the back of the van, which was so cluttered it looked like a hoarder's refuge. He opened a toolbox that had looked promising, only to find it empty. That made sense, he supposed. The owner of the van would have removed anything of value before abandoning the vehicle.

Nigma kicked through the dense strata of trash. Beer bottles went rolling, a year's worth of newspapers scattered, a moldy half-eaten taco flew from its disturbed wrapper, and among all that, Nigma heard liquid slosh inside a container. He prodded around in the newspapers and near the back of the van discovered a plastic gas can.

The gas can contained no more than a liter of fuel but Nigma believed it would suffice. He scurried around in the trash like a rat and found two empty beer bottles. With a steady hand he transferred the gas from the can into the two bottles. Once they were equally filled and the gas can was empty, Nigma set them aside and searched for the next component to his improvised firebombs.

The van yielded a torn tee shirt that the Riddler shredded further. He plugged the two bottles with the rags. The bodies of the bombs were complete. All he needed was a fire source.

Five minutes of scrabbling through garbage only made the Riddler dirty and smelly. He found nothing that produced a flame. Unwilling to give up after he'd assembled his firebombs, Nigma stopped burrowing for a moment and thought about his predicament. He had to believe the universe would provide. Damn it, he was doing something good for someone else! He was risking his neck, even. That deserved a cosmic reward.

The well-oiled gears turned in Nigma's head. Even if there was a lighter or a box of matches somewhere in the strewn field, he'd never find it. He needed to look somewhere less cluttered, and there was only one such place that he hadn't searched: the glove box.

The glove box was filled with expired insurance cards. Nigma threw the cards out and, buried beneath them, found the universe's gift to him: a disposable lighter. He knew the universe would recognize his altruism.

* * *

Crane was sure he'd been abandoned, and the despair that followed didn't make being carved like an Easter ham any more enjoyable. He should have known better than to believe, even for a moment, that Nigma would help him. The Riddler was a narcissist and a coward, a combination that made him put himself before anyone else. He had no doubt decided Crane's situation was too dangerous and any noble intentions Nigma might have had had been flushed.

As he'd always known, he was going to die alone. Alone and miserable and exploited. His only consolation was that, once he was dead, he wouldn't be aware of how widely the video of his torture and death was distributed. He tried not to think about it while he was alive. The idea of the people of the world united in watching one of Gotham's greatest villains taken apart piece by piece was, like the knowledge of Nigma's traitorous retreat, exacerbating an already despicable predicament.

"You aren't even paying attention."

Crane was bewildered, like he'd been called on in class while he'd been staring out the window. He'd been so busy decrying the wanton cruelty of the universe and the complete uselessness of a certain question-obsessed poltroon that he'd somehow forgotten to give Zsasz the respect the killer felt he deserved.

"You failed to keep my interest," Crane replied. He heard the Joker snigger. Crane wondered if it was over the joke, or over the hurt Zsasz was going to administer for his sarcasm.

"I'll have to try harder."

A minute later, Crane found he'd been cured of his ADHD. His mind focused with singular intensity on the letter opener that protruded from his shoulder like an arrow. He didn't think he'd ever concentrated on anything so hard. Even his vision, it seemed, was narrowing to encompass only the letter opener. That was a very bad sign, Crane's medical training told him, the world dimming and contracting like it was. It probably meant he was going to faint.

On second thought, that wouldn't be so bad. He could use a pleasant period of total unconsciousness. It would be restful. He wouldn't care what stabbed him while he was out. Maybe he'd even get lucky and mere unconsciousness would deepen into a coma. Yes, he rather liked the idea of slipping into a comatose state. Not even the Joker's boundless stupidity could bother him there.

Crane was on the verge of closing his eyes and blacking out when something flicked him on the nose. It was enough to startle him back to his senses. He blinked, his vision cleared, and something hit him in the forehead this time.

"No sleeping on the job, Johnny-boy," the Joker said. Following the clown's words, another projectile bounced off Crane's cheek.

The object that had just hit him fell into his lap. Crane looked down and discovered it was a kernel of popcorn. The deranged clown was throwing popcorn at him like he was some kind of circus animal that had failed to amuse its audience.

"Come on, Zsasz, Johnny's so bored he's nodding off. You can do better, can't you?" the Joker asked.

"There's nothing wrong with the job I'm doing now!" Zsasz replied.

"Yes there is. It's boring."

"How can this bore you?" Zsasz plucked the letter opener from Crane's shoulder and brandished it in the clown's general direction.

"You're a one-trick pony. It was interesting for a while, but you can only see your pet Scarecrow stabbed so many times before it gets old. I'm, what's the word, desensitized."

"You're an idiot," Zsasz muttered.

"And you have no creativity!"

Zsasz tried to defend his performance, only to be pelted with popcorn. As much as the Joker liked eating popcorn, he found he liked throwing it even more.

Crane couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. It was as surreal as a Salvador Dali painting. There was nothing about the scene that made sense, or was remotely probable. Who in his right mind would ever expect to watch the Joker boo another madman's performance and originality, and then rain popcorn all over the creation?

"Clichéd! Uninspired! Unimaginative! Dull! Lame! Snooze-fest!" the Joker shouted, punctuating each condemnation with another handful of popcorn.

The Joker ran out of popcorn long before he ran out of insults. Zsasz stood his ground, taking the Joker's abuse with a deepening scowl, until the clown compared his talent to the minds behind _Troll 2_. That proved to be just a little too cruel for Zsasz to handle, and the killer stopped suffering in silence and started venting.

"I should cut your throat and see if you can still laugh then!"

"Or you could bore me to death. Look, I think you've done it to Johnny!" The Joker pointed to Crane, who was staring straight ahead, mesmerized by the verbal warfare before him. Then Crane, realizing he'd become the center of attention, blinked and shattered any notion of his death. The Joker looked slightly disappointed.

"If you think someone else can do a better job, fine. I'm leaving," Zsasz said.

"You can't quit, I'm firing you! Clean out your desk and don't kill anyone on the way out," the Joker replied.

Zsasz had no further words for the clown. He stormed from the room, no doubt off to work out his frustrations on the first homeless person he encountered. Luckily for that homeless person, but not so luckily for the Riddler, Zsasz ran smack into Nigma as he was leaving the room.

Both men had been moving with some speed, and the collision sent them stumbling backward. One of the Riddler's improvised Molotov cocktails was knocked from his hand and went rolling down the hall. The Riddler managed to keep hold of the other and wasted no time fishing the lighter from his pocket. Zsasz recovered just as quickly and brandished the letter opener at Nigma.

"Get back in there," the Riddler said.

"Put down the lighter unless you want to be my newest mark."

"Even in Gotham you couldn't find someone stupid enough to fall for that. Now get back in there or be flash-fried."

Zsasz had never burned someone alive, but he assumed it would be a horrible way to go. He entered the room he'd just exited and was greeted by the Joker's derisive comments.

"Nope, still fired. Don't make me call security and have you hauled out," the Joker said.

"I'm not back under my own free will. Someone's here for your plaything," Zsasz said.

Edward Nigma, unlikely hero and firebug, stepped bravely into the room.

Next door, Black Mask and the Great White Shark were glued to their seats. They had just witnessed the greatest twist in history. When this video made its rounds on the Internet, it would dominate even the cutest cats and fruitiest fifteen-year-old singers.

"Should we do something about this?" the Shark asked.

Black Mask considered what would be the best—and most potentially profitable—course of action. Yes, many members of the audience would be in it only to see the Scarecrow brutally tortured and murdered. The plot that could develop meant less to them than the plot of a porno. There was, however, no denying the power of surprise developments. People with more latent sadistic tendencies, the ones who wouldn't watch a straight-up snuff film, would be drawn in by their curiosity. For the same reason people went to see movies like _The Sixth Sense _or _Fight Club_, they'd watch to see how the Riddler's appearance changed the game.

"No, let the Joker deal with it," Black Mask said.

"Good documentarian doesn't interfere, huh?" the Shark said.

"You got it. We're like those National Geographic filmmakers. When the shark goes after the seal, you have to let nature take its course."

Warren White grinned. He was sure Black Mask hadn't picked an animal at random.

"You wouldn't mind missing your chance to play with the Scarecrow?" the Shark asked.

"I've got plenty of fingers I can break if I want. Plenty of fingers I'd have a reason to break. I'm not saying I wouldn't enjoy it, but the Scarecrow's not on my black list. There just isn't the same satisfaction. What about you? That fork through the hand important enough? If it is, I don't have a problem with you popping the Riddler. I'll even lend you the gun."

The Shark ran one of his remaining fingers along his palm. Crane's fork attack, White's official welcome to Arkham Asylum, had left White with no physical reminders. The tines hadn't even left scars. Revenge over such an old score didn't seem worth intruding.

"Forget it. This is too interesting," White said.

And it was about to get even more interesting. The Joker, seemingly unflustered by the Riddler's brazen entrance, met the intruder with a wave of snark.

"What's this, Mop Man? Your _boyfriend_? I've heard the rumors for years, but here's the proof. It's your knight in green hot pants." The Joker laughed.

Neither Crane nor Nigma found the Joker's comment worth rebuking. As though he hadn't heard the taunts, the Riddler pushed forward.

"I want Crane, and if you don't step away from him, I'll use this." The Riddler flicked the lighter on and held the wavering flame close to the rag fuse in the bottle.

Crane looked from Zsasz to the Joker and calculated his chances of getting past both of them and behind the relative safety of the Riddler. He was desperate, terrified, hyped up on adrenaline, and they were distracted. Trying to escape seemed worth the risk. It wasn't like they weren't already planning to kill him in the most awful ways imaginable. His situation couldn't get any worse.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you," the Joker said. "I know a thing or two about burning gasoline and small spaces. You wouldn't want your cuddle bunny to get cooked."

Crane waited until the Joker laughed at his own stupid comment before making his move. With speed that would have earned him an Olympic medal, Crane threw himself forward, keeping low like a running back to avoid getting tackled. In four strides he was past the Riddler and out into the hall.

Crane's momentum propelled him forward until he hit the wall. He rebounded and staggered, nearly losing his footing. Through sheer force of will and an absolute refusal to collapse now that he was free of that torture chamber, Crane managed to stay upright. He stumbled to the wall he'd just bounced off of and used it to support himself.

Nigma followed hastily behind Crane, lighter and firebomb held out in front of him, the flame never more than a few inches from the fuse. He stepped past the threshold. He could hear Crane panting for breath behind him. The lighter was growing painfully hot against his thumb. He endured until he, like Crane, was against the wall.

"Jonathan, the stairs aren't far. Can you manage?" Nigma asked.

"Haven't got a choice," Crane replied.

"Go left and take the first hall."

"Burn the clown. Burn him, the miserable bastard."

The Joker stuck out his bottom lip and pouted. "That's not very nice, especially not after all I've done for you. I made you friends, you ungrateful little straw man."

The Riddler considered doing as Crane wanted, but had to weigh the repercussions. This was the Joker, the guy who escaped death almost as often as Batman did. If he didn't die, but came out mutilated like Two-Face, he would be deadlier than a canister of nerve gas released in a subway station. And even if the lunatic did have the decency to die, there was Harley to consider. Nigma shuddered. When word reached Harley that he'd toasted her Puddin', there would be no corner of the Earth distant enough to hide him.

Instead of throwing the firebomb at the Joker, Nigma pushed Crane in the direction of the stairs. Before he followed, he had one small matter to attend to.

"Riddle me this. Give me air and I thrive, give me food and I grow, give me water and I die. What am I? A fire!" Nigma touched the lighter to the gas-soaked rag, backed up a few paces, and hurled the bottle to the floor. A curtain of fire roared across the hall, forming an impenetrable barrier.

"Run, Crane, run!" Nigma said as the fire roared behind them.

Crane needed no further encouragement. Guided by the Riddler and his perfect mental map, the pair arrived at the stairs just as an alarm, no doubt in response to the fire, began to sound. Nigma shoved open the door and ushered Crane into the stairwell.

Even though it was all downhill, Crane found descending the stairs almost as exhausting as running up them would have been. His body had been pushed in ways it had never meant to be pushed, and his injuries bleated with every movement. If not for Nigma's increasingly whiny and obnoxious "encouragement," Crane would never have been able to maintain any kind of speed.

"My grandmother could move faster than you, and she's been dead for twenty years!" Nigma said.

Grandmother. He had to bring up grandmothers. Crane managed to coax a final burst of speed from his protesting body.

Even on the ground floor there was no time for a rest. Nigma led Crane out the emergency exit and into the cool air of extremely early morning. Crane could never remember the miasma of Gotham tasting quite so fresh.

"I parked the van—"

"Van? What did you do to my Cadillac?" Crane demanded.

"Killer Croc caused a traffic jam and I couldn't wait around all day," Nigma replied.

"You traded in my Cadillac for a _van_?"

"Jonathan, this can wait."

"First my pickup and now my Caddy! I can't believe it!"

"Do you want to die?"

Crane reluctantly shut his mouth. This conversation was merely postponed, not over, not by a long shot!

"The coast is clear. This way."

The only obstacle on the quest for the van was one of Black Mask's henchmen. The henchman held a walkie-talkie to his ear and was apparently unhappy with whoever he was speaking to. Crane and Nigma waited until he went stomping off, shouting about proper fire extinguisher use, before sneaking by.

The van was an absolute piece of shit. Crane could have wept. The nicest vehicle he'd ever owned, and the Riddler had abandoned it in favor of this beastly thing.

"I'm saving your life," Nigma said when he noticed the hate in Crane's eyes.

"I'm gassing you into insanity for this," Crane replied.

Nigma knew better than to doubt Crane's words. His only hope was to get Crane to safety, disappear until Crane cooled down and found someone else to rage against, and then never, for as long as he lived, ever Taser Crane and leave him for dead again.

As much as he hated the van, Crane had no choice but to get in. He opened the passenger door, sat down, and crossed his arms. He would tolerate this ride, but he would not enjoy it.

Nigma was not such a sourpuss. He took the driver's seat, turned the screwdriver that served as the ignition key, and felt something that felt suspiciously like a gun muzzle press against the back of his head.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Richard Dawkins is an author and outspoken atheist. Fred Phelps is the leader of the Westboro Baptist Church, which pickets soldiers' funerals and is generally the scum of the Earth. Matter and anti-matter would reconcile before they would.

_Troll 2_, the worst movie ever made, features special effects that would have looked bad in 1970's episodes of _Doctor Who_.


	26. The Joker Used Taco Attack

Thanks for the reviews! I love them like crazy old women love their cats.

* * *

Nigma removed his hands from the steering wheel and held them in the air, making the universal gesture of surrender. The gun jammed against the back of his head did not go away, but pressed deeper into his scalp.

"Get out," the man behind the gun hissed. His voice identified him as Black Mask.

The Riddler, his movements slow and careful so he wouldn't provoke Black Mask into blowing his head off, reached for the door handle. He pushed the door open and, ever so gingerly, stepped outside. The moment his feet touched the ground he considered running, but he reined in such impulsive, stupid ideas. Black Mask was a renowned marksman, and he no doubt had plenty of practice hitting fleeing human targets.

The van had no rear doors, so Black Mask was forced to follow Nigma out the driver's side. Crane stared straight out the windshield and refused to do so much as look at Black Mask as he passed. Crane had a nagging suspicion that of the two men exiting the van, only one would be alive in five minutes.

"Down on your knees."

"I'm sorry! Setting your property on fire was impulsive and not the best idea I ever had. Of course I'll pay for damages and—"

"You'll shut the hell up and do what I tell you."

"Surely we can come to some arrangement. There's really no need—"

"Here's the arrangement. I'm giving you one last chance to save yourself a lot, and I do mean _a lot_, of pain. Do what I said and it'll be over before you hear the gunshot; keep yapping and you'll get a bullet in the gut."

The Riddler shut his mouth but refused to kneel. Black Mask sighed, shook his head, and pistol-whipped Nigma across the back of the head. The Riddler stumbled forward and finally did as ordered.

The blow to the head had been enough to knock the Riddler off his feet, but it wasn't enough to scramble his brain. He was all-too-aware of his lowly position and he was understandably sore about it.

This was a disgrace! Even animals in the slaughterhouse were afforded more dignity. Here he was, the greatest mind in Gotham, and he was going to die on his knees like a Cambodian peasant or a Stalin-era Soviet dissenter. It was unbelievable. No blaze of glory, no final testimony to his genius, no grand finale, no nothing. He probably wouldn't even get a proper funeral. Black Mask would just order his lackeys to toss the corpse in the river.

Crane had had every intention of facing forward until the whole mess was over, but something had come over him. No matter how hard he tried to ignore the events going on outside, he found his head turning to look. That was bad enough, watching the execution, but then he got the brilliant idea to try to stop it. He, without any type of weapon and with a significant portion of his blood now on the outside, was going to challenge a psychotic killer who was armed with a gun? Yes, Crane realized as his legs began to move, he was going to do just that.

Crane had just lifted his butt from the seat when a hand snagged the back of his shirt and pulled him down. He realized he'd been an idiot. The second Black Mask had popped out from the back of the van, Crane should have known the rest of the goon squad would be there, too.

"You are a very naughty Scarecrow," the man holding Crane's shirt said. "But this time you aren't going anywhere."

"Let him go, Zsasz. If he wants to try something, I've got a round for him, too." Black Mask momentarily switched his target from the Riddler's head to Crane's chest. Crane desisted any further struggling.

With that little problem dealt with, Black Mask refocused his gun on the Riddler. His finger tightened on the trigger and the Riddler would have bid adieu to his brains if not for a sudden vibration in Black Mask's pocket.

What a time for a call. If it was those phone company sons of bitches asking him to take another customer satisfaction survey, he was going to kill someone. Someone in addition to the Riddler, that was.

"This had better be important," Black Mask said.

The Riddler, if he'd been indignant over his impending execution before, was now outright outraged. It was one thing to kill a man who'd made an honest mistake. It was another matter entirely to make the unfortunate victim kneel there while the executioner made small talk. It was rude, unprofessional, and completely unacceptable. If the Better Business Bureau dealt with super criminals, the Riddler would have made a complaint.

"So you got the fire out, right? Slow down. What the hell do you mean you couldn't? There was a what? A second bomb! What about the sprinkler system? Forgot about that, damn it."

Black Mask added insult to injury by turning his back on the Riddler and going for a walk. He was, Nigma observed, one of those people who got busy feet when talking on the phone. They couldn't just stand there and have a conversation. No, not these special individuals. They had to go traipsing all over the place as if getting a phone call turned them into Jack Kerouac.

"And you're sure there's nothing you can do? You used _every_ fire extinguisher? No, I don't want the whole place to burn down! Don't you get wise with me! You'd better be sorry. Fine, yes, go and call them. Just keep them away from my video collection."

Black Mask shut his phone off. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then exploded like the USS Maine.

The gun disappeared back into its holster because Black Mask needed both hands for what he was about to do. He strode over to the Riddler, who had seen the murderous hate in Black Mask's eyes and was looking very nervous, and hauled the unfortunate egomaniac up by his throat.

"You had a second bottle, they had to call the fire department, and now I have nowhere to live!" Black Mask shook the Riddler and throttled him at the same time.

The Riddler was thrown to the ground and wasted no time curling into the fetal position. He had barely tucked himself around his vulnerable guts when Black Mask began to kick him like he was a soccer ball. A soccer ball packed full of sensitive nerves and easily ruptured blood vessels.

It wasn't long before the Riddler was yelping with each new blow. Though the fetal position was supposed to offer some protection, Black Mask knew how to circumvent the body's natural defenses. He literally kicked the Riddler's ass for a bit before really bringing back his foot and planting it at the base of Nigma's spine. The Riddler yowled and made the grave mistake of abandoning his protective position in favor of sprawling out and clutching his back. That gave Black Mask access to a whole new frontier of places to kick.

Even if the Riddler had tased him and lost his Cadillac, Crane couldn't sit there and watch him get beaten to death. There was nothing Crane could do to physically stop Black Mask, but maybe he could reason with him or at least mitigate his anger to the point he no longer wanted to stomp the Riddler like a bug.

"You don't have to kill him!" Crane shouted.

"Shut it, Scarecrow," Black Mask replied.

"If you need a hideout, he's got one."

"I'm not interested in some hole in the wall." Black Mask delivered a crushing kick to the Riddler's side, surely cracking a rib and maybe doing worse.

"It isn't a hole in the wall, and even if it was, it would still be better than Arkham."

That was a hell of a good point. As much as Black Mask wanted to thrash the Riddler senseless, he wanted to avoid a premature return to his cell even more. With some reluctance, Black Mask stopped his assault. He used one foot to roll the Riddler over onto his back and then crouched down next to him.

"You're going to take me to your hideout," Black Mask said. "And if we get there and I don't like it, I'm going to pick up where I left off. Capiche?"

The Riddler managed to nod.

"Good. Now let's go. I think I hear sirens."

Nigma tried to stand, and when that failed he tried to crawl to the van. When a lance of pain that told him he was going to make a chiropractor a very rich man—always assuming he survived long enough to find a chiropractor—dug into his spine, he decided lying there was the best course of action after all.

Black Mask noticed his chauffeur had failed to take the wheel. With a sigh, Black Mask walked over to the Riddler, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him like a dead body. Hefting the Riddler into the van wasn't the easiest task, especially not when Crane was taking up valuable space Black Mask needed for maneuvering.

"Can't you move?" Black Mask asked Crane.

"Seeing as how you're practically in my lap, no, I can't," Crane replied.

"Then get in the back where you belong."

"It's filthy back there and I've got open wounds. I'll get sepsis."

"I really don't think you're going to live long enough to worry about that."

Crane decided Black Mask would probably give him something worse than blood-poisoning if he didn't relocate. Crane surrendered his seat and managed to squeeze past Black Mask to join the freak show assembled in the back of the van.

The Great White Shark, because he had the most dignity and class, was sitting on the empty toolbox and above the trash-covered floor. Since Zsasz's services were no longer required, he had moved from directly behind Crane's chair to one of the few spots of floor the Riddler had uncovered when he'd been rooting for explosives. The Joker had plopped down in the trash and looked as content as a child in a sandbox.

"Sit next to me, Johnny," the Joker said, patting the mess adjacent to him. Crane couldn't help but notice the moldy taco the clown wanted him to sit upon.

"No," Crane replied. He picked up two pages of newspaper and spread them out in the very back of the van to form a mat.

With Crane out of the way, Black Mask was finally able to prop Nigma up in the driver's seat. The Riddler found this position unbearable on his lower back, and slumped forward to alleviate the pain. His new position helped a little, though it did come with the detraction of having the steering wheel press into his face.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Black Mask demanded. The sirens were close now, and the window for a completely clean getaway was slamming shut.

"For my pain to drop below a ten," the Riddler replied.

"A ten? Unless you really want to know what a ten feels like, drive!"

The Riddler pulled himself up just high enough to see out the windshield. The pain in his lower back increased, but not to the point it felt like a Predator was trying to rip his spine out. It was a level of misery he could endure, at least for a while.

The van pulled out onto the street just as the first of the fire trucks arrived to save the hideout of a wanted murderer. Black Mask hoped he'd have a home to return to. He also hoped the firemen didn't discover his stash of home movies.

There was nothing Black Mask could do about fire damage or about the possible discovery of DVDs that contained scenes that would make _The Human Centipede 2_ look like Disney fare. His goons would call him when it was all over, unless they were too scared or had all somehow burned to death. They were stupid, but most of them weren't that stupid. Yes, Black Mask figured, there would be _some_ survivors, even after he got through with them for their complete ineptitude regarding the fire.

The van travelled a full mile before the Joker showed everyone why nobody took road trips with Clown Prince of Crime.

"Are we there yet? Are we there yet? What about now?" the Joker asked.

When that didn't prove annoying enough, the clown switched to another tried and true technique for turning any car ride into a trip straight through the deepest circle of hell.

"Turn on the radio! Come on, Eddie, turn it on! Pretty please with cherry bombs on top?"

"The radio doesn't work," Nigma replied.

"Then let's sing show tunes. How about "Spooky Mormon Hell Dream"? I'll start."

Before the Joker could serenade them with the auditory version of Ebola, Crane decided he would rather die than listen to another of the Joker's songs. "Johnny the Mop Man" had been enough ear rape to last for not only a lifetime but a string of reincarnations and Crane would be damned if he was going to listen to anything about Mormons, especially if the Joker was providing the lyrics.

"Zsasz, kill me," Crane said.

"Really?" The serial killer perked up and produced the letter opener he'd grown so fond of.

Crane tilted his head back, exposing his throat. "If you knew what was coming, you wouldn't ask."

As though the mere thought of his singing had not driven Crane to attempt Zsasz-assisted suicide, the Joker broke into song. And then he broke the ears of everyone unfortunate enough to hear his horrendous warbling.

"Jesus Christ, it sounds like Yoko Ono being fed into a wood chipper!" Black Mask exclaimed, his hands clamped over his ears.

The Riddler cringed. He'd thought he'd heard the epitome of bad singing when Jervis Tetch, concussed from a Bat-fist to the temple, had climbed onto a table in the Arkham cafeteria and had belted out an off-pitch version of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bat" with half the words in the wrong place. Compared to the Joker's performance, the Hatter's singing would have earned him a spot on _American Idol_.

"I can't believe it, but you made me grateful I haven't got ears," the Shark said.

The Joker, shot down in mid-verse by the overwhelming volume of criticism, shut his mouth and crossed his arms. His smile turned upside down.

"You don't appreciate my genius," the clown said.

"You haven't got any genius to appreciate," the Riddler replied. Thanks to the Joker's lycanthropic singing, Nigma's ears now hurt as badly as his kicked spine.

"Johnny, your boyfriend's being rude. Slap him," the Joker ordered.

When Crane did not lay down the law with his pimp-hand, the Joker decided to do it himself. He didn't feel like getting up and walking all the way to the front of the van, so he sent an emissary to deliver his message. That emissary? The moldy taco.

The taco sailed over the back of the chair and struck the windshield. It ran down the glass, leaving a brown, greasy smear behind it. A rancid stink emanated from the crushed tortilla. The Riddler hastily rolled down the window.

Like a father who was fed up with his kids fighting in the back seat, Black Mask whirled around and glared at the Joker. The Joker sat up straight and put on an innocent face.

"Why can't you behave yourself?" Black Mask asked.

"Because I'm bored," the Joker replied. "I'm bored and there's nothing to entertain me. I can't sing, I can't listen to the radio, and I can't even see these two nerds fight."

Black Mask couldn't believe he was catering to the Joker's idiotic desires again, but he looked for something the clown could play with. He checked around and discovered the corner of a magazine poking out from beneath his seat. He pulled out the magazine, took note of the naked lady on the cover, and then tossed the porno back to the Joker.

"Have fun," he said.

The Joker flipped through the magazine, settled on a page, and pulled out a pen he'd stolen from Black Mask's desk. Ms. Boobs of the Month was soon Ms. Moustache of the Month. Why stop there? The Joker gave her a beard. He considered the picture before adding a turban and a camel with a malformed hump in the background. Now she was funny _and_ sacrilegious!

Having properly offended a significant portion of the world, the Joker turned a few pages and sought out inspiration for his next glorious masterpiece of social commentary and raw debauchery. He found a redhead that looked a little like a younger, skinnier Poison Ivy and almost defaced her out of spite. It was only the brunette on the neighboring page that saved the redhead.

"Spooky, look!" The Joker held up the magazine triumphantly.

"No, I don't want to see your diseased whores," Crane replied.

"But I think I found your mother!"

Crane had never wished anyone dead so fervently.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Jack Kerouac traveled across the US and Mexico and recorded his adventures in the book _On the Road_.

The U.S.S Maine exploded in 1898 and its sinking was one of the causes of the Spanish-American War.

In _The Human Centipede 2_, twelve people are stitched together to form, you guessed it, a human centipede.

"Spooky Mormon Hell Dream" is one of the songs from the musical _The Book of Mormon_.


	27. Mop Man Returns

Thanks so much for the reviews! Would someone be so kind as to up the count to 200?

As for the reviewer Michelle Myers: rest assured, I will not review Romafille's story again. I give one flame per customer.

* * *

It was dawn and Batman was able to officially call it a night. Unofficially, he had retired to the Batmobile, his head throbbing and his footing unsteady, more than an hour ago. But he'd been listening to police radio feeds, and he'd had every intention of leaping into action if any Arkham escapee appeared on his radar.

Right. Like he would have been of any help in his condition. It probably wasn't even safe for him to be driving, not after having his head slammed into a car by Killer Croc. If he actually had to fight someone, or dodge bullets, or solve puzzles, or do anything asides from stand (sway) there and look intimidating (dead on his feet), he would have been in serious trouble.

As he headed for the Bat Cave, Bruce tried not to dwell on how unhappy Alfred was going to be when he found out Killer Croc had nearly dined on Batman's face after tenderizing it with a sedan. To take his mind off Alfred, Bruce processed all that had happened during the night, and tried to figure out where he stood. He had taken Killer Croc out, and that eliminated the threat of any Gothamites being eaten. Unfortunately, said citizenry could still find itself trapped in one of Edward Nigma's lethal puzzles, cornered in a dark alley by Zsasz, or stuck with a permanent grin courtesy of the Joker's lethal laughing gas.

Suddenly unhappy Alfred was not such a bad image after all.

Batman shook the idea of mass civilian casualties from his head. If he brooded over the worst scenarios now, his dreams would be full of blood and terrified screams. He could not afford nightmares, couldn't risk bolting upright in the middle of the night because he'd dreamed the Joker had gotten hold of a school bus full of kids or Black Mask had decided to settle some old scores and had brought along a chainsaw to help him. He needed all the peaceful, restful sleep he could get if he was going to be anything but useless come nightfall.

By the time he arrived at the Bat Cave, he'd imagined a poison gas attack against Gotham's largest hospital, a room full of bodies so dismembered it was impossible to tell exactly how many people were actually there, and meatpacking plant workers ground into breakfast sausage. Sausage that the Joker ensured was shipped off to grocery stores and sold to unsuspecting customers.

So much for pleasant dreams.

Batman hauled himself from the vehicle and Alfred was by his side in a moment. The butler could tell something was wrong with Batman. He had a hand pressed against his head, and when he tried to walk, there was an uncertainty in his footing.

"_Another_ head injury, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked.

"Killer Croc," Batman replied.

"That creature will be the death of you."

"At least he won't be the death of anyone else. Not today, at least."

Bruce stumbled over to a nearby chair and sank into it. Once he was off his feet, he removed the cowl from his head and massaged his aching skull. He had to stop it with the concussions. They were painful and dangerous enough on their own, but each successive concussion was causing cumulative damage. Bruce was familiar with the news reports of brain damage suffered by footballers and figured years of fighting lunatics had to be comparable to a few seasons in the NFL.

"You will be glad to know I anticipated this," Alfred said.

"You anticipated Killer Croc smashing me into a car?" Bruce asked.

Alfred set a tray down on Bruce's lap. "Given your recent run of bad luck and poor judgment, I suspected you'd find yourself in trouble again. I took the liberty of preparing tea."

Bruce looked down at the tray. Alfred had provided a cup of steaming tea, a buttered scone, and the strongest pain medication available without a prescription. Alfred was God.

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said as he sipped the tea and downed the caplets. "This is exactly what I needed after the night I had."

"What are your plans for tonight?" Alfred asked. "Going out again, I presume."

"I've got no choice. If I don't stop them, all of them, people are going to die."

"If you aren't careful, Master Bruce, _you_ are going to die."

"I'll keep that in mind. Right after I sleep off this headache."

There was no point in carrying the conversation further, and Alfred knew it. Both he and Bruce were well aware of the risks Batman ran every time he donned cape and cowl, and both of them reluctantly accepted the knowledge death was forever hanging precariously over Batman's head. One night the Bat's luck would run out. Alfred could only hope it wouldn't be any night soon.

* * *

Even finding proof of the long-suspected whoredom of Johnny's mother couldn't keep the Joker entertained forever. Waving the magazine in Johnny's face, passing the picture around so everyone could see it—including the Riddler, who nearly crashed into a parked car when boobs filled his field of vision—and drawing a mask on the naked lady to better show the family resemblance all eventually lost their appeal. The Joker made a halfhearted attempt to find something else funny in the magazine, but compared to Johnny's mother, none of the other girls were any fun to mock or disfigure with ink.

"That was fun while it lasted, but I'm bored again," the Joker announced, casting the porno behind him to demonstrate how finished with it he was.

Because the universe would not have it any other way, the magazine landed face-up on Crane's lap. Against his will he looked down at it. He'd shut his eyes when the Joker had tried to show him the filthy rag before, but something, perhaps a repressed oedipal curiosity, compelled him to look at the woman.

The young porn star did not even bare a passing resemblance to his mother. Asides from having the same hair color—a feature Crane had inherited—they looked nothing alike. The burlap mask the Joker had scribbled on the woman did nothing to suggest a lineage.

Crane brushed the magazine off his lap and it fluttered shut. He then buried it under newspaper. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Did you hear me? I'm _bored_!" the Joker repeated.

"Yeah, and what do you want us to do? Hire a dancing monkey to keep you occupied?" Black Mask asked.

"Ooh, would you do that for me?"

"No, no I would not."

"Why would you be so cruel? Get my hopes up and then crush my dreams! You're a-a a bad person!"

Black Mask rolled his eyes. Why, again, hadn't he just killed the clown? Anyone else, and Black Mask did mean _anyone_, would have been disposed of long before they got the chance to become such a pain in the ass.

If Black Mask thought he was suffering from the Joker's stupidity, the Riddler was in such mental torment that he wanted to die. The Riddler was used to being the cleverest voice in the room—it was nigh impossible for him to be otherwise—but at least most people had measurable IQs. They might be able to get in a word or two on occasion that wasn't completely idiotic. But with the Joker, it was all stupid. Pornography and cheap cracks at Crane's mother and monkeys—monkeys were no doubt smarter than the Joker!—every time the clown opened his mouth, he took stupidity to a new level. Nigma felt like Einstein surrounded by drooling imbeciles, like GLaDOS in the midst of Wheatley and corrupted cores.

"If I can't have a monkey, let me play with your gun."

"No!" Crane and Nigma shouted simultaneously.

There was little Crane could have done to stop the Joker, but the Riddler had control over the van. Without bothering to tell anyone to fasten their seatbelts—not like those in the back had seatbelts to fasten—Nigma jerked the steering wheel and the van screeched across the dividing center line.

"What the hell are you doing? Get back in your own lane! I'm not going to give him the gun so stop trying to kill us!"

"I can't put up with him anymore! He's killing my brain cells!" the Riddler cried.

"And crashing is going to not kill them?" Black Mask said.

"Crashing? I'm not crashing." To prove he wasn't going kamikaze with the Econoline, Nigma stopped the van.

Black Mask half-expected to find the van in the path of oncoming traffic, despite the Riddler's assurance. Instead of a rapidly approaching truck, the windshield showed a rundown gas station. There were two other vehicles in the parking lot, and one of them had to belong to the cashier who was visible through the plate glass window.

"What are we doing here?"

Nigma pointed at the fuel gage. "Killing two birds with one stone. We're nearly out of gas—and I am _not_ breaking down with the Joker—and I'm sure three-day-old taquitos will buy me some peace."

"Don't count on it," Crane said. If two shopping carts of processed sugar and empty calories hadn't won over the Joker, knockoff Mexican food probably wasn't going to suffice, either.

"Jeez, Spooky, you're kind of a downer," the Joker said.

"My glass is not half empty. My glass was smashed to pieces and then the pieces were used to cut me."

"That reminds me, I'm thirsty. Get me a grape slush while you're in there."

The Riddler reached into his pocket and removed the last of his cash. Discounting the Joker's food, that left about twelve dollars for gas. Nigma hoped it would be enough fuel to get him where he needed to go.

"Hold on, you're actually going to _buy_ the gas?" Black Mask asked.

"No, I'm going to move it through osmosis from the pump to the tank," Nigma replied.

"Watch yourself."

"How else would I get it? I'm the Riddler; I can't intimidate free gas from people without a weapon and I know you don't intend to arm me."

"You're an embarrassment, you know that? As long as you're associating with me, you're going to man up a little. Zsasz, go with him and show him how it's done."

The Riddler swallowed hard and looked back at Zsasz. The serial killer was clambering to the front of the van and looked eager to get started. Nigma knew better than to make him wait. He opened the door and, clutching his aching side, limped out into the parking lot.

Zsasz was like a dog straining against its leash. He pulled ahead of the Riddler, who was dragging his feet for more than one reason, and then waited restlessly for Nigma to catch up. It took all of the killer's patience not to grab the stalling Riddler and drag him into the mini mart.

There was a bell above the door that rang when the pair of villains entered the mini mart. The cashier, stationed behind the counter with a magazine in front of him, glanced up. He looked put-upon, as though customers were a burden he was forced to endure.

The look of boredom redolent of a kid in study hall gradually fell from the cashier's face. His eyes narrowed and he leaned over the counter so he could get a closer look at the men who had just entered the store.

"Holy shit…" the cashier said. His hand crept below the register, no doubt looking to trigger a silent alarm.

Nigma, had he been alone, probably would have abandoned the heist at that point. As it was, he had no chance to even suggest leaving before Zsasz bounded across the counter like Spring-heeled Jack. The Riddler fled to the other end of the store while Zsasz conducted his business with the cashier.

The mini mart, by nature of its modifying adjective, was not a spacious building with plenty of places to hide and ignore the sounds associated with violent death. Nigma found himself standing in front of a wall of coolers, staring with burning intensity at a shelf of chocolate milk. He wanted to clasp his hands over his ears, but feared any movement would draw Zsasz's attention to him. There was also the logistical issue that, if he did cover his ears, he wouldn't hear the killer sneaking up on him if Zsasz decided one convenient store night-shift clerk wasn't quite good enough.

The cashier gave a single, brief death-bleat that dissolved into a gasp and gurgle. Something thudded against the display of cigarettes that was kept out of minors' hands and behind the counter. Nigma figured it was probably one of the cashier's feet, kicking spastically and involuntarily like the legs of a hanged man.

The cigarette display rattled a few more times and then an eerie silence descended. Even the hum of the coolers seemed to disappear until the quick mart was as quiet as the airless void of space. Nigma scarcely dared to breathe, lest he break the silence and trigger…_something_. Something bad. Something very bad and armed with a letter opener.

Nigma might have held his breath until he passed out—though why the noise of his body hitting the floor would be less intrusive than breathing, he wasn't quite sure—if someone hadn't been kind enough to break the silence for him. A door in the corner of the store swung open and the squeak of gimpy wheels shattered the sepulchral silence.

A heavyset, frightfully pierced young man pushing a wheeled mop bucket emerged from what had to be a bathroom. He wore earphones, and Nigma could clearly hear the throbbing bass of whatever he was listening to. The music explained why he hadn't heard his coworker scream, and this second cashier explained the second car in the parking lot.

The cashier removed one ear-bud and said, "I did the best I could, but there is no way I can get that crap off the ceiling. Alex, did you hear me? Alex?"

The clerk turned in a confused circle. He found no Alex, but did find the Riddler staring at him.

"Did you see Alex? He's the other guy that works here."

The Riddler shook his head and went back to staring resolutely at the moo juice.

"Okay… Maybe he went on a smoke break. If you need anything, I'll be right back. Just got to dump the bucket."

Alex had gone on to the big, eternal smoke break in the sky, and his friend was set to join him. The second cashier was blundering straight for the counter, where Zsasz was no doubt waiting to leap out and assail him. Nigma didn't know if his heart could take two ghastly murders in one morning. He hadn't even been able to see the first one, thanks to the censoring wall the counter provided, but there was no way Zsasz was going to bother dragging his prey out of sight to save Nigma's delicate sensibilities.

The cashier moved into striking distance. Nigma could no longer distract himself with happy, smiling brown cows. He swiveled around and waited for the inevitable.

The inevitable happened five seconds later. The cashier paused to give the bucket a kick because one of its wheels had locked up. He then discovered what that poor little wheel felt like when he was knocked off his feet by a maniac who had popped up out of nowhere.

What Nigma expected to be a one-cut, easy victory for Zsasz turned into a spectacular fight for life. The cashier, though he'd been surprised, recovered in time to stave off a potentially mortal wound. Instead of cutting the cashier's throat, Zsasz had to settle for gashing his arm. The clerk yelped but, thanks to the dozen or so hoops and studs he'd decorated his face with, he had the pain tolerance to shake off the cut.

The clerk might have looked like a moron who never hoped to get a job a monkey couldn't perform (in the Riddler's opinion), but even such a moron was smart enough to realize he couldn't fend off a knife-wielding assassin without some kind of weapon. The only thing in arm's length happened to be the mop. Since men on the verge of being bled out had even less room for choosiness than the proverbial beggars, the clerk grabbed the mop with his good arm.

Zsasz readjusted his aim and struck out at the cashier a second time. He was surprised to find his blade stopped by the plastic handle of a mop. The letter opener dug a harmless valley into the mop instead of into the underside of the clerk's chin.

Like Mighty Casey with two strikes stacked again him, Zsasz got serious. He was not going to be denied his mark by a fat twenty-something and cleaning supplies. Especially not since the Riddler was there to serve as a witness.

Zsasz feigned another jab and the cashier brought up the mop again. The killer grabbed a hold of the mop with one hand and tried to wrest it away. The mop handle was slippery and wet that close to its stringy head and Zsasz couldn't get a solid grip on it. The plastic went sliding through his fingers and when he tried to grab it farther down the handle, the clerk thrust the mop forward like a lance.

What felt like a sopping cloth octopus struck Zsasz in the face. Zsasz stumbled backward as gray, soapy water forced its way up his nose. Damn it! His nose had just stopped hurting after its close encounter with the handcuffs and now it was probably bleeding again and everything.

The mop ninja took this time to scramble to his feet and haul ass away from the crazy bastard who wanted to kill him. When his life was in danger, the clerk moved less like a penguin and more like Nina Sayers. Using his newfound extreme speed, the clerk hustled to the bathroom he'd just cleaned. He clicked the lock a moment before Zsasz collided with the door. The psychopath stepped back and growled. He could tell the door was too solid to break down or stab through. His mark had gotten away, and all because of a stupid mop.

Zsasz slapped a frustrated hand against the door. He stood there, slouched in anger, for a bit before remembering he had unfinished business to take care of. In his haste to take down the second cashier, he had not paid proper respect to the first one. He turned from the door and headed back to the front of the store.

The Riddler had not moved from his place in front of the cooler. Zsasz saw him standing there and beckoned him forward with a finger. Nigma would have sooner dove into a pool filled with piranhas.

"I'm not going to hurt you. You have your job, I have mine, and they both have to be done," Zsasz said.

Nigma needed a moment to recollect his job—gas, taquitos, and frozen drinks—because brutal murder did tend to leave the mind disorganized. Once he had his brilliant head back in order, he got to work.

Since acquiring gas required playing with the cash register, and getting to it required going behind the counter with Zsasz, Nigma decided to scrounge up the food first. He found the machine that cooked the taquitos and hotdogs was off. No surprises there. Nobody except the Joker wanted crap like that at six in the morning. The slushie machine was at least working. Nigma selected the largest cup and filled it with purple slurry. As a substitute for the taquitos, Nigma grabbed some bags of chips and candy bars.

Having accumulated all the food he could stuff in his pockets, Nigma now had only to get the fuel flowing. He looked to the counter and saw a dead man flopped on it. Charming.

"You're playing with corpses!" Nigma shouted. "Do you realize that?"

Zsasz readjusted the dead clerk's arms so it looked like the man was using them as a pillow. Anyone coming into the store would have no reason to believe the cashier was anything but asleep.

Finished with his grim tableau, Zsasz had one final task to perform before he could call himself satisfied. He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off, laying it on the counter next to the clerk's head. With exquisite slowness, he drew the letter opener down his side, scoring a fresh cut to commemorate the clerk's liberation.

Nigma waited in silence for Zsasz to get dressed and wipe that unsettling, almost sensual smile off his face. It took far longer than the Riddler hoped it would.

After an uncomfortable amount of time, Zsasz finally pulled his shirt back on and gave up his space behind the counter. Nigma, careful to avoid touching the posed clerk, hopped over the counter and approached the register. In ten seconds he had the gas pump primed to dispense fifty dollars' worth of fuel.

The Riddler crossed the counter and picked up the Joker's grape slush. He checked his pockets to make sure he hadn't lost any of the candy and, sure that all his goodies were in their correct spot, headed for the door. Zsasz followed close behind.

"You took long enough!" the Joker complained once the van was refueled and Nigma was back in the driver's seat. "I was starting to think you'd died in there, Riddles. Not that _I'd_ care, but I'm sure Johnny would be heartbroken."

"I hope you get diabetes," Nigma replied, passing the slush and candy back to the clown.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm immune." The Joker, spitting in the face of hypoglycemia, took a gulp of artificially-flavored grape and stuffed half a candy bar into his face.

The Joker was quiet—except for the occasional crunch as he chomped on his candy like a horse—and Nigma dared to hope he'd have some peace for the rest of the drive.

Fat chance.

* * *

Author's Notes:

GLaDOS, from the _Portal_ series, is a computer obsessed with human testing and science. Wheatley is "the dumbest moron who ever lived" and corrupted cores are computers with faulty programming that makes them insane.

Spring-heeled Jack is a British figure of myth from the 1800s who could jump very high.

Mighty Casey is a baseball player from the poem _Casey at the Bat_. He lets two strikes go by, aims to beat the living hell out of the third, and strikes out anyway.

Nina Sayers is the ballerina portrayed by Natalie Portman in the movie _Black Swan_.


	28. You Have Reached Your Destination

Remember, ages ago, when I said this story would be nowhere near as long as _Nerd_? Just realized it's now longer. That shows how good I am at planning these things out.

Thanks for the reviews, and for hanging through the slow parts.

* * *

The Riddler idly wondered if somewhere in the past few hours he hadn't died and gone to hell. The louder the show tunes erupting from the back of the van became, the more Nigma toyed with the possibility. His brain was only too happy to contrive of ways he might have expired—roasted like a luau pig in a blaze of his own creation, shot in the head by Black Mask, turned into a Pez dispenser by one clean cut across the throat—and each scenario seemed more plausible than the last.

If he'd been a more superstitious, less ingenious man, Nigma might have let his paranoia get the best of him. It would be only too easy to lose his grip on reality and start wondering whether he, like Dr. Malcolm Crowe, hadn't been dead from the first scene. If not for his intellectual nature that would _never_, under any circumstances, believe in anything so contrived and nonsensical, he might have really started to worry. Why, his palms might have began to sweat, his heart rate might have jumped, and the overwhelming urge to stop the van next to the nearest pedestrian and demand confirmation of corporealness might have overcome him.

If he was a poor, sad bastard who believed in quaint notions like hell.

Which he certainly wasn't. Not him, not Edward Nigma. He was a logical creature to his core. He would leave belief in ghosts and damnation to people like Crane's great-grandmother. He did not believe, not in the least, that he was dead and being tormented by a van full of lunatics.

"What in the hell is wrong with you? Get back on the road!"

Nigma blinked and realized that while he'd been drifting in his thoughts, the van had been drifting from the road. If that had happened a few miles back, the Riddler would have accidentally recreated a scene redolent of _Grand Theft Auto_. Here, just past the city limits, the number of pedestrians on their way to work or Starbucks was significantly smaller. Grateful that his moment of distraction hadn't sent anyone flying through the air, Nigma pulled the van off the gravel shoulder and back onto the roadway.

"If you're so damned smart, why can't you keep your eyes on the road? And where are we going, anyway? Your uncle's farm?" Black Mask asked.

"I don't even know if I've got an uncle, and should I have one, I highly doubt he's got a farm," Nigma replied.

"I was being sarcastic. I do want to know where this great hideout of yours is, though. We've been driving for more than half an hour and it's looking pretty suburban out there."

The Joker, since any conversation that neglected to include him was not worth having, decided to add his two cents. He popped up between Black Mask and the Riddler and flung an arm around both of them. It was difficult to tell who found the contact more painful.

"This has been a great road trip, but I'm all out of show tunes and I'm dangerously low on grape slush. Are we going to see casa de loser anytime soon?" the clown asked.

"For your information, I am _not _a loser. Also, the correct Spanish would be _casa de perdedor_."

"And…"

"And we'll be there in another half hour."

"Ew, it's not in New Jersey, is it?"

"No. It's in the countryside."

"Just as bad!" the Joker proclaimed.

"I can't steer with you clinging to me. We won't get there at all if I drive up a telephone pole."

Reluctantly the Joker relinquished his hold and returned to his seat. He couldn't stand another thirty minutes of this. He'd already polished off most of his candy, he didn't feel like singing if no one would join him, and the view was just atrocious. How was looking at the sky supposed to keep him from dying of boredom? Maybe if some clouds with vaguely sexual shapes floated along, but so far the sky was clear and not the least bit Freudian.

In desperation the Joker turned to his companions. He couldn't torture the Riddler because that would result in the van driving off a cliff and exploding (or, more realistically, ending up in a ditch). Messing with Black Mask was also flirting with disaster, because Black Mask had a gun he hadn't yet gotten the chance to use on anyone. That left Zsasz, the Shark, and Johnny.

"So, Vic, how's it—" the Joker began.

"No," Zsasz said. "Not me."

Well, there was certainly no arguing with that. The Joker would have to look for a friend elsewhere. Maybe the one who looked like he was ready to star in a _Jaws_ remake.

"I remember when you had a moustache," the Joker said.

"That's not a great icebreaker. Try again," White replied.

"It made me question your sexuality. Hell, it made _everyone_ question your sexuality. I remember telling my therapist—before I killed her, of course—that your moustache was the most horrible moustache I'd ever met. You're lucky it froze off."

The Shark made a mental note to lock the Joker in Mr. Freeze's cell at the earliest opportunity and see how the clown liked going through life without a majority of his facial features. Knowing the Joker, he'd probably take the disability in stride and use it to terrify terminally-ill children. White amended his first mental note, substituting Freeze's cell for the shark tank at the Gotham Aquarium.

When even bringing up the moustache failed to get a rise out of the Shark, the Joker had no choice but to admit defeat. The clown left White to twiddle his thumbs—scratch that, _thumb_—and turned to his favorite source of amusement in the whole wide van.

"Oh Johnny-boy."

* * *

Ivy was losing her mind. Never mind that she was, in the eyes of the law, legally insane. No, this was quite different. This was making her bite her nails, a habit she'd never before exhibited, and this was distracting her to the point she couldn't even garden. That had never happened to her before. Ever. America could have crumbled to pieces around her, invaders from beyond the stars could have laid waste to Gotham, and Ivy would have been content to wait it out in the comfort of her greenhouse.

She might have been able to wait out the coming of the Elder Gods, but she could not wait out the return of Jonathan Crane. Not even the new hybrid orchids that she had been breeding (beautiful but capable of producing venomous spikes when threatened) were magnetic enough to hold her. Ivy dropped her trowel, gave a vacant pat to one of Mel's vines that snaked past her, and headed back to the house.

Harley was, as expected, still asleep. The blonde had been up most of the night watching her extensive collection of tear-jerking Pixar films. Ivy had been forced to order her to bed after she had drifted off and started moaning about someone named Kevin. It would probably be noon before Harley emerged from her bed. That gave Ivy plenty of empty hours to tear her hair out without any witnesses.

Unless she wanted to denude her head, Ivy had to find something to occupy her time and her hands. She walked from the living room to the kitchen, looking for anything that needed washing, straightening, reupholstering, or sorting. The sink was empty, the dishes were arranged in the most logical way, and the fridge was almost as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. There was nothing to throw away, nothing to wipe down, and nothing to provide Ivy with any momentary relief.

Ivy's feet took her back into the living room. As much as she didn't want to sit there and do nothing, Ivy found no alternative. She plopped down on the sofa and reached for the remote. To her great shame and despair, she found herself turning to the television for solace.

Maybe, Ivy rationalized, the morning news would give her some answers. It was entirely possible that Jonathan and Nigma had been captured by Batman or the police and were currently stewing in Arkham. If that was the case, at least she would have closure. As paradoxical as it was to hope her partner in crime had been arrested, Ivy would have preferred that to the agony of not knowing anything.

"Two officers were injured, though both are listed in good condition and are expected to be released from the hospital later today. Commissioner Gordon issued a statement following the arrest—"

Arrest? Arrest of whom? Ivy held her breath.

"—Of Maxie Zeus."

The disappointment was as bitter as cyanide. Maxie Zeus? Why was he even news? Of all the Arkham escapees, Zeus was one of the least likely to inspire nightmares. He ran around in a toga and thought he was a god who, if Ivy remembered her mythology, turned into a swan and had sex with people. Not impressive.

The news anchor went on a while longer, detailing the well-orchestrated police takedown that had nabbed the unorthodoxly-dressed anachronism. Ivy yawned. She hadn't slept well last night. Actually, asides from a ten minute nap at daybreak, she hadn't slept at all.

The newscaster finally finished recounting the long and not-all-that-storied criminal career of Maxie Zeus. There was apparently no other news related to the Arkham break-out to report, as the following story was about the radioactive creatures that inhabited New Jersey's beaches. One of said creatures had been arrested for public drunkenness. Ivy flipped to another channel.

Whatever programming the new channel offered couldn't have been very stimulating, because within minutes Ivy was asleep.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Ivy became conscious of a gentle, rhythmic movement beneath her. Her exhausted mind told her to ignore it and keep sleeping. Ivy liked that idea a great deal and tried her best to drift back into deeper sleep. She had nearly succeeded when something warm and wet plastered itself to her face and then dragged its moistness up her face from chin to hairline.

Ivy opened her eyes and found herself staring into the damp cave that was a hyena's mouth. The hyena's tongue was hanging out, and slobber was dripping onto the couch. A stench redolent of road-kill bloating by the side of the road in the middle of summer drifted from the hyena's grinning jaws.

It took a moment for Ivy to come to terms with the fact that the thing that had dragged itself across her face had been a filthy, pink hyena tongue. Once she recovered from the shock of that, she realized being licked was by no means the end of the hyena-related horror.

That steady movement she'd noted earlier? Oh, that was only the hyena breathing. Ivy's head had been resting on the hyena's side. Its furry, spotted, flea-infested side. She'd actually been using Harley's destructive, foxglove-murdering cretin for a pillow!

Ivy sat bolt upright and propelled herself away from the mangy hyena. She scooted across a single couch cushion before colliding with something. Together she and the something tumbled to the floor in a moaning, bruised heap.

"Jeez, Red, what was that about? Ouch!"

"Harley? Oh, my God. Why was I sleeping on the filthy monster I distinctly remember telling you to lock up in the shed?" Ivy demanded.

"Because—ow, move your elbow!—we needed some room on the couch and you were hoggin' it all," Harley replied.

Ivy detangled herself from Harley and stood up. "What are you doing up? What time is it?"

"About nine. I woke up 'cause I heard a noise and thought it was Randall in my closet. Turns out it was just Lou drinkin' from the toilet."

"Randall? Drinking from the…" Ivy wiped a hand across her still-wet face. "I am counting to three. If that thing isn't out of my sight, I am going to mulch it!"

Harley yipped and ran for the stairs. Lou lolled after her at a pace that wouldn't get him out of sight if Ivy was counting to fifty. Harley saw this and gave a whistle. Lou put his paws in motion and trotted up the stairs after Harley.

At Harley's retreating back, Ivy yelled, "Get them both out of the house and don't let me see them again."

Five minutes later Harley, now clothed in more than her nightgown, walked down the stairs with her hyenas in tow. Despite Ivy's warning, Harley wasn't in any rush. She assumed Red had calmed down and Lou was no longer in danger of being turned into fertilizer.

"Before we go outside, can we get some breakfast?"

"There isn't any food you'd want to eat," Ivy replied.

"But aren't Eddie and Professor Crane back yet?"

"No, they aren't. And I don't know where they are."

"Do you think Batman got 'em and hauled 'em back to Arkham?"

"I don't know, Harley. Now leave me alone, please."

"Okay, Red, whatever you say. I'll just give Bud and Lou an apple or somethin'."

Leaving Ivy to brood, Harley led her pets into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and was disappointed to find it every bit as empty as it was yesterday. Even Ivy's weird, cold-weather tendril things were looking lonely. Harley chose an apple and, since there were no more of those, two pears for the hyenas. Bud and Lou turned their snouts up at the pears when Harley placed the fruit on the floor. Discouraged, Harley rubbed the pears clean on her shirt and stuck them back in the fridge.

"Sorry, babies. Maybe Eddie and Professor Crane will get here soon, and they'll have steaks and hamburger and pizza, mmm, and ice cream and cake and all that stuff."

And maybe they'd descend from the heavens on a flying pink unicorn, and all those goodies would be tucked into the unicorn's saddlebags.

Harley sighed and ate her apple. This was going to be a terrible day, she could tell already. First she'd been woken up way too early, and then Red had knocked her off the couch and yelled at her, and now she and her babies were going to starve.

"Come on. Let's go take this apple core out to the compost heap before Red gets mad again." Harley patted her hip and her hyenas obediently followed.

Harley opened the door and was greeted by warm morning sunshine. Her spirits lifted a little. It was impossible to be completely miserable when the weather was so adamantly trying to make you happy.

"After I'm done compostin', maybe you can meet Mel. He's real nice once you— Babies? Is somethin' wrong?"

Bud and Lou were standing rigid with their ears raised. They hadn't yet adopted an aggressive stance, but from their body language it was obvious that they were on guard.

Harley looked out in the same direction the hyenas were looking. They were facing the road, but the road was empty, as far as Harley could tell. She squinted and waited. The hyenas did not relax and Harley felt herself tensing up to match their cautious postures.

After a minute or so, Harley caught sight of a glint that could only be the sun reflecting off an approaching vehicle. Unless some Jehovah's Witnesses or census-takers were coming to knock on the last door they'd ever knock upon, Eddie and Professor Crane were back from the longest shopping trip in history.

"Yay! We're not gonna starve!" Harley cheered.

The hyenas, oblivious to the good news, did not regain their usual playful demeanor. They continued to act like statues.

"I know they've been gone _forever_ but you gotta remember Eddie and the Professor!"

If Bud and Lou did remember, they showed no sign of it. Harley shrugged. She was sure the babies would calm down once they caught sight of Crane and Nigma.

The vehicle drove into view and Harley understood what had gotten Bud and Lou's tails in a knot. That van was definitely not the same vehicle that had driven off last night. As it got closer and Harley was able to make out more details, Harley liked the look of the van less and less. Even by Gotham's standards the van was a heap, and if there was any vehicle less trustworthy than a white windowless van, it was a white windowless van with no hubcaps but plenty of rust.

By the time the van turned onto Ivy's long driveway, Harley was as tense as her children of another species. She didn't want to run screaming into the house and be labeled the girl who cried creepy rapist van until she was sure the van wasn't just a cruddy substitute Eddie and the Professor had been forced to steal for some reason. Of course, if the van did turn out to be owned by some weirdo pervert psycho who trolled around, looking to prey on innocent ladies out in the countryside, Harley didn't want to be too far from the house.

The van stopped too far away for Harley to properly see the driver. She had no choice but to wait for him to exit the vehicle.

After a moment the driver's door opened and a man stepped out. He was, Harley saw, a redhead wearing a green jacket.

"Eddie!" Harley shrieked. "What took you so long? What'd you get me?"

The passenger door opened and Harley shouted out to Professor Crane. Only it wasn't Professor Crane, not unless something horrible had happened to his face.

"Uh, Eddie, who's that with you?" Harley asked.

A third person emerged from the van, and that one was even less like Professor Crane. The new guy didn't even have hair! On top of that, he was paler than an Alaskan after six months of winter.

"What's goin' on here?" Harley said mainly to herself, her voice too quiet for the Riddler to ever hear it.

The van disgorged a fourth occupant. The moment he set foot on the ground, the hyenas gave twin excited barks and ran toward him. Harley made a grab for her babies, snagged Lou's hind leg for a moment, but ended up with two empty hands.

At the sight of three hundred combined pounds of fur and potential toothy lethality barreling down on him, the man from the van took a fighter's stance. Though she couldn't see it clearly, Harley knew the man had to have a weapon clutched in his hand. If he killed her hyenas, she'd kill him. If her broken heart didn't kill her first, that was.

"No! Babies, don't do it!" Harley wailed.

The hyenas, either because they heard their matriarch or they recognized the letter opener for what it was, slowed to a complete halt a few feet from the man. Both hyenas sat down on their haunches, tails wagging, until the man lowered his weapon. Once he relaxed his defensive pose, the hyenas sidled up to him and began to paw and sniff.

The situation defused, Harley was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Whoever that guy was, he couldn't be too bad. If Bud and Lou liked him, he was okay in Harley's book.

It wasn't polite to let your pets jump all over people, so Harley headed toward the van to fetch her hyenas. She was halfway between the van and the house before she was able to positively identify the newcomers. The pale guy with no hair was the Great White Shark. Harley wasn't sure, but his teeth looked sharper and scarier than the last time she'd seen him. And the guy with the weird face, that was Black Mask. And the guy who was Bud and Lou's new friend, that was—

Harley stopped dead in her tracks. Her babies were cuddling up to…_him_. Of all the crazy criminals, it had to be _him_.

There had never been a more cruel betrayal in the long, sordid history of back-stabbing. Harley did the only thing she could think of. She burst into tears and ran back inside to scare the hell out of Poison Ivy.

"What's wrong now? Harley, calm down," Ivy said.

"My babies— He— They're fraternizin' with the enemy!"

Ivy blinked. Okay… That wasn't much of an explanation. How could stupid animals fraternize, and who was this enemy Harley was sobbing over? Batman? But it was day time. And he punched hyenas, he didn't fraternize with them.

"What are you talking about? Listen to me. Take a deep breath and tell me what's wrong."

Harley inhaled like Kirby. Then, in one breath, she said, "Eddie's back and I don't know where the Professor is, but there's some real creeps out there and Bud and Lou ran off with the biggest creep of them all!"

Ivy was about to ask for a little more specificity, but Harley's words clarified themselves as Ivy ran them over in her brain. Eddie was back, Crane was not, and there were some "creeps" that Eddie had led right to Ivy's doorstep. Harley's vague description, coupled with the plot against Jonathan Crane's life, fit together to form a terrifying picture.

"He sold Jonathan out," Ivy whispered.

"Who did? Red, do you know somethin' you're not telling me?"

Anything Ivy might have wanted to reveal would have to remain forever unsaid, because just then there was a knock on the door.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Dr. Malcolm Crowe is the character from _The Sixth Sense_ who has been dead all along.

In _Arkham Asylum: Living Hell_, which tells the Great White Shark's origin, Warren White does indeed have a (rather sad) moustache which is frozen off with the rest of his fuzz in Mr. Freeze's cell.

Kevin is the bird from _Up_.

Zeus does turn into a swan and shag a lady. The result is Helen of Troy, who is, according to myth, born from an egg.

Randall is the chameleon-like monster from _Monsters, Inc_.

Kirby is the pink videogame character who sucks in his enemies.


	29. The Odds Will Never Be in Your Favor

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Ivy locked the front door and fastened the security chain. Before Harley could ask what the next course of action was, Ivy grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into the kitchen. Harley was barely able to stay on her feet—and avoid getting her arm pulled from its socket—as Ivy dragged her through the house.

"As soon as we get outside, we're going to the greenhouse," Ivy explained.

"So Mel can eat that hyena-nappin' jerk? I like your thinkin', Red, but do you think I could have my arm back maybe?"

Ivy looked down and saw her fingers were so deeply imbedded into Harley's wrist that they would leave bruises. She released her grip and Harley massaged her wrist.

"Sorry."

Harley and Ivy had nearly reached the back door when the front one was kicked open. The security chain held and bought the fleeing pair a few seconds. A second kick snapped the chain and the door flew open, banging against the wall.

All the leeway the security chain had given them evaporated when they hit the back door. The most basic home-defense measure—locking the door—cost Harley and Ivy everything. Ivy fumbled with the lock and by the time she managed to twist it in the right direction and open the door, a hand was there to shove it closed.

Hands were not often the most recognizable part of a person, but Ivy did not need to look at the face of the man holding the door shut to know who he was. The man's shirtsleeve had ridden up a bit and his arm bore an unmistakable series of grouped tally marks. Ivy twisted away from the door to confront the woman-murdering bastard that dared violate the sanctity of her home.

An overwhelming majority of people, upon discovering Zsasz had broken into their domicile and was standing between them and escape, would have dissolved into panicked screaming. Ivy was not part of the ninety-nine percent. She glared at Zsasz unflinchingly. When he returned her glare with a calm and steady gaze, she pulled out the most dangerous weapon she had on hand: her hand.

Though Ivy weighed half as much as Batman, lacked his weapons and armor, and couldn't, despite her most valiant efforts, intimidate like him, she could still throw a mean punch. She aimed a more powerful punch than the one that had knocked Crane out of his chair at Zsasz's face.

If the knuckle-sandwich had made contact, Zsasz's days of having a nose that resembled anything except a blob of Silly Putty would have been over. Unfortunately for Ivy, any future dreams of becoming a championship boxer died when Zsasz nonchalantly caught her fist as easily as he would have caught a ball lobbed underhand by a child. Ivy's eyes widened with disbelief. She had thrown that punch with everything she had, and it hadn't even come close to its intended target. What was worse, Zsasz regarded her trapped hand with faint amusement, as though it had been a mildly interesting trick performed by an amateur magician.

Ivy tried to pull her hand from Zsasz's grip and felt his fingers tighten around hers. She told herself not to panic. Then she considered all the people that hand and its twin had killed in cold blood. Ivy was unable to follow her own advice.

"Let go of her, you dirtbag, before I kick your butt!"

Harley's threat didn't exactly have Zsasz quaking in his boots. He took one look at the blonde, noted that she'd struck some kind of weird karate pose, and decided to defuse the situation before it turned into one of those Japanese martial arts movies where gravity doesn't work so well.

In the blink of an eye, Zsasz had transferred the letter opener from his pocket to his hand, and then to Ivy's throat. Harley squeaked and dropped her _Fatal Needles vs. Fatal Fists_ attitude in favor of a more submissive one. One that would, she hoped, not get her best friend cut to pieces in front of her.

"Come on, Mr. Z, don't kill Red. I know we can all be friends if we really try. I got some movies that might help," Harley said.

Ivy, despite her precarious predicament, couldn't help but roll her eyes. Was Harley serious? How could anyone be that naïve? Did Harley honestly believe she could install a soul in the likes of Victor Zsasz if she forced enough talking toys and positive moral messages into his eyeballs? If so, Ivy was doomed.

In a move that had nothing to do with Harley's offering of heart-melting cartoons, Zsasz dropped the letter opener from Ivy's neck. He had orders—orders he wasn't exactly overjoyed with—not to kill anyone in the house until they were identified and their fates properly determined. He supposed he could always say he hadn't heard Black Mask shout that—his brain had been buzzing with the mad desire to chase and hunt, after all—but he somehow didn't think Black Mask would care. As much fun as it would be to kill Poison Ivy right then and there, it would be at least as painful to be shot by Black Mask later.

Keeping his hand firmly closed around hers, Zsasz pulled Ivy away from the door. He motioned for Harley to move back the way she and Ivy had come. Harley retreated to the living room and discovered, to her dismay and great distress, that a bunch of murderous freaks had taken up residence there. One of them was even rude enough to steal Harley's prime television-viewing spot on the sofa.

"You're nothing but animals! Can't you even keep your feet off the coffee table?" Ivy demanded.

Black Mask looked her in the eye, smirked, and proceeded to grind the heel of his shoe into the tabletop. Ivy saw red.

"Eddie, I thought this was your hideout, not a hotel for crazy plant ladies," Black Mask said after he finished defacing the table's finish.

"_His_ hideout? He told you this house was _his_? Where is the bastard? I'll kill him!" Ivy shrieked.

"He's behind the couch," the Shark replied, gesturing with his one remaining thumb.

"Let her go, Zsasz. This is going to be hilarious," Black Mask said.

Zsasz released his hold on Ivy's hand and she stormed towards the couch with all the menace of an approaching hurricane. Like a scouting prairie dog, Nigma briefly popped his head out of his hiding spot. It took one look at the swirling cloud of pure fury that was barreling down on him for Nigma to decide conditions were unfavorable, and for him to disappear back behind the couch.

The sofa was not exactly an impenetrable fortress and it didn't take Ivy long to grab the Riddler's ankles and haul him out. Nigma scrabbled for any sort of handhold to avoid being dragged out and savaged by one very steamed woman. Neither the back of the couch nor the short carpeting offered Nigma any purchase and he soon found himself cowering at Ivy's feet.

"How could you do that?" Ivy demanded.

"I couldn't exactly tell them the house was yours or they'd never have agreed to come here and I would have been shot. Shot in the head. And that would have been the end of all my brilliance. I really had no choice in the matter," Nigma replied.

"Forget the house! Forget that you brought these barbarians here! How could you do that to Jonathan?"

"Do what? Oh, the Taser… But how did you know about that?"

"Taser? You electrocuted him and _then_ sold him out?"

"No! I… I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. We're not on the same page; we're not even reading the same book. I didn't sell Crane out. I risked my own life to save him," Nigma protested.

"Then how did they find him?" Ivy asked.

At that point the Shark raised a mutilated hand. "I can answer that one. I have friends in strategic places. One of them found Crane and delivered him in exchange for certain services rendered."

"And Nigma?" Ivy asked.

"Burned my freakin' hideout down," Black Mask said.

"I hardly burned it down. The fire damage—" The Riddler took note of the look on Black Mask's face and wisely decided to stop downplaying the arson. If Black Mask said it was burned to the ground, Nigma was willing to let him have his over-dramatization.

Ivy's head was beginning to pound. "Then what happened to Jonathan? Did that clown kill him?"

"Not unless he did it in the past five minutes. They were in the back of the van, both of them, and alive. At least last time I checked. Of course that might have changed," White offered.

Harley, who up to that point had been trying to appear invisible, burst into the conversation. "You mean my Puddin' is outside?"

Harley didn't bother to wait for an answer. With a squeal of joy she sprang for the door.

"Traitor," Ivy muttered.

The front door was standing open, its locking mechanisms kicked to hell, and Harley saw no reason to waste time closing it. She ran out in the yard and headed straight for the van. She had nearly reached the vehicle when her favorite face in the whole wide world appeared in the passenger side window.

"Harley?" the Joker asked.

"Puddin'!"

Before the Joker could ponder what his girlfriend was doing living with the Riddler, Harley had torn open the van's door and had attached herself to him like a male angler fish to its mate. Harley crushed the Joker in a hug so tight he found it difficult to breath. Oblivious to the pressure she was putting on the Joker's ribcage, Harley continued to squeeze.

"Harley! Harley, you're killing me!" the Joker wheezed.

"Sorry, Mister J. I just missed you so bad and now you're back! And here I thought I was gonna have a bad day!" Harley said, loosening her coils enough for the Joker to avoid asphyxiation.

"It's never a bad day when I'm around, is it, Harls?" the Joker asked, affectionately ruffling Harley's hair.

"No way, Jose! As long as I've got my Puddin', I know everything'll be okay."

"That's my Harley, always the optimist. You could learn something from her, Johnny-boy."

"Is Professor Crane here somewhere? Where'd you find him and Eddie? They were supposed to be out gettin' food." Harley tried to look into the rear of the van, but found the Joker blocking her view.

"Don't worry about him. Johnny's just fine," the Joker said.

The clown's assurances came under fire when Crane, seeing Harley's presence as an opportunity to escape the back of the van and the humiliation the Joker was trying to force on him, told his less-pleasant version of events.

"I am _not_ 'just fine'! That psychotic bastard had me kidnapped and tortured for his own amusement!"

The Joker's grin drooped a little at the corners. There was a reason most scarecrows didn't talk: their mouths were nothing more than lines stitched with black thread. Maybe it would be better for everyone if Mop Man looked the same way as the rest of his crow-hating kin.

"What's he talkin' about?" Harley asked.

"I have no idea," the Joker replied.

"Liar!"

"Okay, Puddin', I know somethin' weird's happening here. Let me see the Professor," Harley said.

"But he hasn't even got his hat on yet," the Joker protested.

"I'd like nothing more than to make you eat this hat! I wish there was a God so I could ask him to damn you!"

Before the Joker could stop her, Harley peered over the clown's shoulder and into the recesses of the van. It was impossible to miss the lanky, miserable form of Jonathan Crane. He was standing, his hands drawn into fists and held close to his sides. His pose told Harley he was ready to fight. The blood that stained an alarming portion of his shirt told her he'd already been in at least one previous fight, and had in all likelihood lost.

"The sadistic miscreant you call a lover let Zsasz butcher me with a letter opener."

"But I had to!" the Joker said.

"Why? Oh, that's right. Because he, and I quote, 'won rock, paper, scissors' and was entitled to first blood."

At Crane's revelation, Harley broke all contact with the Joker and stepped away from him. Unfortunately, she had forgotten she was standing in the van, and ended up falling out the door and onto her keister. The Joker pointed and laughed at her.

"First day on the new legs?" the Joker asked.

"Shut up, Mister J! It's not funny and what you did to Professor Crane is horrible!"

"Come on, it isn't like I killed him." Then, lower, he added, "not yet, anyway."

"I'm done talkin' to you. Now let Professor Crane out of the van and don't talk to him, neither."

The Joker's smile turned a 180. Since when did Harley have the guts to talk to him like that? Just because she was more of a man than the Riddler and could rule the roost when she was with that loser didn't mean she had the right to tell the Joker his business, especially not when it came to what he did with his playthings.

Harley didn't need to see the Joker's frown to realize she'd dug herself a hole, climbed in, and buried herself up to her neck. She knew from painful experience that the Joker did not take kindly to any kind of backtalk or sass. She also knew he was more than capable of making her see the error of her ways.

"Uh, please?" Harley amended.

"Harley, Harley, Harley. You can't get so attached to people like Johnny. If scarecrows even count as people. They're just so fragile that it's only a matter of time before they—"

At the same moment the Joker abruptly stopped talking, there was a heavy thud followed by the tinkle of falling glass shards. The clown made an attempt to turn toward the back of the van but couldn't coordinate his feet. He ended up falling backwards and out of the door. He landed in the grass next to Harley.

"Greenhouse. Move."

Harley looked from the semi-conscious Joker to the van just in time to see Crane hop down from the vehicle. He clasped a jaggedly broken beer bottle in one hand. His other hand was firmly affixed to his shoulder, and Harley could see blood seeping out between his fingers. Whacking the Joker upside the head had required so much force that Crane had aggravated his injuries and gotten a particularly nasty stab wound bleeding again.

"But Mister J—"

"Can burn in hell. Stay here if you'd like, but don't expect Ivy or I to ever have anything to do with you. If we survive, which is unlikely."

Harley was torn by indecision. She bit her lip and her eyes traveled from Crane to the Joker and back again. How was she supposed to choose between her best friends and her Puddin'? She couldn't stand to lose either of them, but she could see no way to keep them both.

Crane didn't have all day for Harley to weigh and measure him and Ivy against the Joker. Already the clown was straining to sit up. It wouldn't be long before he regained his feet, summoned his deranged posse, and had Crane hunted down like a rabbit. Crane figured if he was going to die, he was going to make one last valiant attempt to defend himself, and see if he couldn't take at least one of his would-be killers down with him.

To defend himself he needed guns, and while he didn't have to fight his way through zombie-haunted Atlanta to get them, the greenhouse still seemed a long way off. Any distance, Crane realized, more than a footstep away felt nigh untenable when your blood was running through your fingers and pain from rekindled injuries flowed in like a relentless tide.

"_Professor_!"

Crane couldn't begin to fathom why Harley felt the need to shriek like that. He'd hardly managed to cover twenty feet; if she decided she wanted to help him, she could recoup the distance between them in seconds. And if she'd decided to stay with the Joker, crying at Crane wasn't going to make him forgive her.

"Please, Puddin', don't do it!"

Now, that made Crane freeze in his tracks. He turned around to face the Joker and, before he could complete his half-circle, felt an immense line of heat drawn along the side of his head. A cracking boom accompanied the burst of fire. It took Crane a moment to causally link the noise and the burning pain that chewed at him, though once he did make the connection, his nerves froze. The Joker had just shot him, and the only reason he did not have a gaping hole where his temple used to be was because the clown hadn't quite recovered from having a beer bottle broken over his skull. If the Joker's aim had been a fraction steadier, Crane would have either been lying dead on the ground or facing life as a vegetable.

By sheer luck, he had suffered no more disfiguring an injury than Vincent van Gogh or Evander Holyfield had suffered in their lifetimes. Crane didn't dare hope his luck would hold a second time. If the Joker fired again, Crane would have more than a grazed ear to complain about.

Escape was the only wise choice, but escape was also an impossibly long distance away. Crane, injured as he was, didn't have much speed left in him. The greenhouse and the weapons he needed were on the other side of the house. Even the house itself had a sizeable span of lawn separating it from him. Maybe he could reach the front door—which was still ajar—but he didn't need C-3PO to tell him his odds weren't favorable.

Standing around doing calculations wasn't going to get Crane out of the line of fire. With no other options, he decided to try for the door. He made the decision just in the nick of time for no sooner had he moved than a bullet tore through the space that had been formerly occupied by his guts.

The gunfire couldn't go unnoticed. The house's residents poked their heads out and watched the spectacle. Ivy wasn't content to stand in the doorway and observe. She shoved past Zsasz and the pair of hyenas that meandered around his legs and ran out into the middle of the battlefield.

"Jonathan, you've got to _move_!" Ivy propelled Crane toward the relative safety of the house.

Harley, seeing both her friends turned into exposed targets, stopped begging and pleading and decided to take action. As the Joker aimed at Crane's back, Harley threw herself on top of him. Like a living straitjacket she secured the Joker's arms and kept him from blowing any holes in anybody. By the time the Joker fought, kicked, and bit his way out of Harley's octopus grip, Crane and Ivy had ducked inside the doorway and out of sight.

Though she couldn't have run more than forty feet in total, Ivy felt breathless and her heart galloped in her chest. She placed a hand on her chest and tried to calm her breathing. It was only after she had taken a deep breath in through her nose that she realized she wasn't the one who was breathing the hardest. Crane was panting and slumped, as though his body was so overworked it no longer had the energy required to keep his head up.

"Jonathan?" Ivy asked. She reached a hand for his shoulder and then froze. Her hand was already smudged with red, and she knew exactly where the smeared color had come from.

"When you shoved me," Crane explained.

Ivy stared at Crane with a look on her face that suggested he'd just peeled off his skin and revealed an alien exoskeleton. It wasn't _him_, per se, that horrified her. It was the incredible amount of harm that had been done to him. He must have been cut and stabbed dozens of times. Somehow in the heat of the moment, when she'd been pushing Crane to safety, she hadn't noticed all the blood and the holes in his clothes. Now that she was in such close proximity, Ivy couldn't look away.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Ivy whispered.

"If you hadn't done something, I would have been shot," Crane replied.

"And it sure looks like that's going to happen anyway, Johnny." The Joker, with Harley nowhere in sight to restrain him, strolled into the house.

He leveled his gun at Crane's head and smiled.

* * *

Author's Notes:

_Fatal Needles vs. Fatal Fists_ is a real kung-fu movie in which a man is stabbed with acupuncture needles that will kill him if removed.

A male angler fish, just a fraction of the size of the female, permanently attaches itself to its mate.

In the first season of _The Walking Dead_, sheriff Rick drops a bag of guns in Atlanta—which is overrun by the undead—and eventually goes back to retrieve it.

Vincent van Gogh and Evander Holyfield both suffered ear damage, one from cutting off a part of his ear, and the other from being bitten by Mike Tyson.

C-3PO: The odds of surviving this fic are 3,720 to one.

Crane: Never tell me the odds!


	30. Hide and Seek

Thanks for the reviews and infinitely sorry for the delay.

* * *

Ivy took one look at the gun-toting Joker and did what any other person would do in her position: she ran away. Unlike any other person in her position, she didn't run for the nearest exit. She ran for the fridge.

"Look at that. She's going to make me a sandwich and I didn't even have to ask," the Joker said.

Though Crane didn't want to take his eyes off the gun pointed directly at his face, he felt the need to know what Ivy was doing. Since she hadn't leapt out the kitchen window to safety, that meant she planned to fight the clown, as well as his insane posse. Crane turned his head and looked over his shoulder just in time to see what looked like a mass of noodles fly through the air and rain down on the Joker.

"Come on, Red, even Harley knows spaghetti goes on a plate. And where are the meatballs? And the—" The clown was cut off as one of the noodles wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed.

"Okay, what the hell are those things?" Black Mask asked. He, along with Zsasz and the Shark, had followed the action from outside in the yard to the kitchen.

It came back to Crane in an instant. The living shoelaces now choking the life from the Joker were Ivy's secret weapon against Alaska. They were the plants she'd been trying to breed to withstand severe cold. Transferred from the refrigerator, where the cold and darkness kept them in a nearly dormant state, to the warm kitchen, the whip-thin vines woke up and attacked.

The Joker clawed at the vine snaked around his throat. The plant, as tightly coiled as an assassin's garrote, bit too deeply for the Joker to get his fingers under it. Unable to get any leverage over the choking vine, the clown desperately searched for something sharp and thin enough to slide between his skin and the vine.

This was a kitchen, which meant there had to be knives. The Joker stumbled across the room toward the sink and the utensil drawers surrounding it. Ivy had no intention of letting him cut his way to freedom. Just as the clown yanked open a drawer, Ivy slammed it shut on his fingers. If the vine around his neck had not cut off all air inflow and outflow, the Joker's shriek of pain would have shattered all fine crystal within a twenty-mile radius. Thanks to the vine's stranglehold, the Joker's scream turned into a silent act of pantomime.

The Joker pulled his fingers from the drawer and turned to face the leafy she-bitch who had mashed his digits. Instead of stopping when he met Ivy's eyes, the clown kept turning. He spun a full two circles before falling down in a drunken heap. Oxygen deprivation had settled in his brain, turning his thoughts to pudding and his movements to the poorly coordinated efforts of a baby.

Ivy drew back her foot to stomp on the hellish clown. Before she could land a single kick, however, a pair of strong hands was grasping her upper arms and pulling her away. Ivy twisted and writhed like a cat trying to escape a bath, but found her assailant tightening his grip the more she fought.

"Keep it up. I know hundreds of ways to break an arm, and I'm always up for learning more."

Black Mask. Bastard. Why couldn't the one with the missing fingers have grabbed her? Ivy ground her teeth together in a way that would have given a dentist a stroke and stopped trying to escape.

While Black Mask restrained Ivy, Zsasz knelt beside the Joker. With one deft flick of his letter opener, the serial killer severed the vine.

The Joker sat up with a gasp and grasped at his throat. The vine had dug so deeply into his flesh that he could feel an indentation that looped around his neck, like a necklace courtesy of Martin Vanger. The Joker traced this grotesque line as he tried to remember how to breathe.

As the Joker panted and massaged his aching neck, the vines that hadn't managed to latch securely and had been flung from the clown like parasites from the _Cloverfield_ monster continued to writhe and undulate across the floor. One of these serpentine creepers made the mistake of crawling too close to Black Mask. He noticed it trying to climb up his shoe and promptly crushed it. The plant's creator observed this outrage and told Black Mask exactly what level of hell she was going to send him to.

"Pardon me for not letting the weed up my pants," Black Mask muttered. Then, louder, he said, "Zsasz, can you and the Shark take care of these freaking things?"

The Shark surveyed the kitchen and grimaced. He'd never done his own gardening; that was what illegal aliens were for. Still, since Miguel wasn't here and these vines had proven their potential lethality, White supposed he could sully his shoes with chlorophyll.

Zsasz was willing to kill almost anything—though humans were the only things he'd found worth the tallies—and unnatural plants were not going to be an exception. The letter opener wasn't the most effective weapon against the vines, though. Zsasz opened the drawer the Joker had been going for and found a vegetable knife that was better suited to his needs.

Ivy forgot all about Black Mask's threat once the killer collaboration got to work on her precious vines. She kicked Black Mask in the shins and thrashed, all the while shouting threats that would have given the Spanish Inquisition pause. Black Mask did not appreciate having his ankles bruised or being threatened with death by Mel, whoever or whatever the hell Mel happened to be. He gave Ivy's arm a harsh twist, bending it in a way the shoulder joint was never meant to bend.

Ivy gasped in pain and was forced to stop her protests or risk dislocating her shoulder. As much as she hated everyone for what they'd done to her and her plants, she would be a poor contender for revenge if she was unable to move her dominant arm.

The vines, despite their first decisive attack, did not fare well against people who saw them coming and knew they weren't leftovers from pasta night. No matter how tight the vines could constrict around a vulnerable throat, that power was useless if they couldn't escape the floor before a knife or shoe ended them.

In a matter of minutes, all of Ivy's hard work and careful tending was reduced to sappy messes on the floor or chopped tendrils that continued to squirm like a plate of _sannakji_. The Joker, now sitting with his back against the cabinet below the sink, took great pleasure in the green carnage. His favorite part was the grimace of pain that crossed Ivy's face every time another of her demonic weeds was crushed or cut. If she was already pulling faces like that, the Joker couldn't wait to see how she'd react when he started paying her back for dumping killer sprouts on his head.

"There's one more behind you, White," Black Mask said.

One firm stamp and the last of Ivy's wriggling creations was crushed into vegetative paste. Ivy went limp in Black Mask's grip. It was too late for her to do anything for her plants except avenge them, and there would be no avenging until she could get away and think awhile. If she wanted to be in any condition to plot revenge—and did she ever—she'd have to appear weak and vulnerable, not liable to tear out someone's eyes.

Ivy had hardly begun to act defenseless when the Joker did something that made her tense up and draw her hands into fists. The clown started laughing. Being strangled only made his laughter more grating.

"Have some respect!" Ivy snarled.

"Or, better yet, have a bullet."

Jonathan Crane, forgotten once the killer plants made the scene, was back. And he'd managed to pick up the gun the Joker had flung away while trying to pry the vine off. That gun, in a complete reversal of roles, was now pointed at the Joker and held by the man the clown had been on the verge of killing.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have acted sooner, but it was impossible to get a clear shot with those two chasing vines," Crane said to Ivy. As much as the waving refrigerator plants weirded him out, he knew they'd been important to Ivy. Not quite as important as putting down the Joker once and for all, but still.

The Joker realized that, just as Crane had said, there was a clear line of fire between the two of them. Something told the Joker that there was no amount of bribery or threats that would convince White or Zsasz to step a little to the side and take a bullet for him. There was also no way, having been concussed and strangled, that the Joker would be able to scramble out of the way and seek shelter underneath the table before Crane shot him dead.

"Come on, Johnny, we can talk about this, can't we?" the Joker asked.

"Of course we can. I'm going to kill you. There, we've talked about it," Crane replied.

"But that's only _you_ talking, and you're the boring half of the conversation."

"Just shut up and die."

A moment before Crane squeezed the trigger, Black Mask threw Poison Ivy at him. Crane's shot went wide, the bullet burrowing into the cabinet instead of into the Joker's face. Colliding with Poison Ivy knocked Crane off balance and, with Ivy atop of him, he fell flat on his back. His injuries did not take kindly to either impacting the floor or having Ivy's weight pressed down on them.

By some miracle Crane managed to hold onto the gun. Not that it did him much good. He couldn't see anything through Ivy's hair, which had spread like a veil across his face, and he sure as hell couldn't aim and fire with her pinning his arms to the floor. Even if he had been free and able to see, the pain he was in would have affected his aim. His arms and shoulders had taken the worst of the impact—Ivy had inadvertently, while bracing herself for the fall, jammed the heel of her hand against a deep stab wound in Crane's shoulder—and the gun was bound to shake.

"Jonathan, be very careful," Ivy whispered into Crane's ear. As she said this, her hand slid down between their bodies. The gun muzzle was poking Ivy painfully in the stomach and she was amazed Crane, upon landing, hadn't instinctively pulled the trigger again. She had to move the lethal weapon before Crane's fingers involuntarily twitched and he ended up killing her instead of any of the maniacs in the room. Crane willingly released his hold on the gun when Ivy's fingers touched his. Because of her position on top, it was awkward for Ivy to take possession of the gun. She eventually managed to get the muzzle out of her gut and her fingers around the grip. The moment she felt comfortable, Ivy sprung into action.

Channeling some awesome long-dead ninja ancestor, Ivy rolled off of Crane and onto her back. She sat up, continuing the same fluid motion, and pointed the gun at the Joker. Or the spot formerly occupied by the Joker. The clown had disappeared. Ivy wasn't surprised. If there was one thing vermin like the Joker were good at, it was running and hiding.

"You're going to have to put that down now," Black Mask said. "Before someone—namely you—gets killed."

Ivy glared at Black Mask and began to swing her weapon from the empty patch of cabinet to the crime lord. He responded by drawing his own pistol and, with the speed and accuracy of a Wild West gunslinger, firing once. The bullet struck the floor equidistant between Crane and Ivy. The meaning was clear: either of them was a target and could be dead or mortally wounded in the blink of an eye.

"You are not getting away with this," Ivy swore as she threw her weapon to the floor.

"Does someone want to pick up the gun this time, or would we rather go through that again?" Black Mask asked.

Before the Joker could emerge from whatever hole he'd crawled into and reclaim his gun, or before Zsasz could get a weapon with a little more range than his blades, the Shark recovered the fumbled gun. In the years since he'd lost his fingers, he'd adapted. While he'd never be a match for Deadshot, he wasn't too bad with a gun, especially if whatever he was shooting happened to be at close range, preferably kneeling and begging him for mercy.

Bereft of her weapon, Ivy saw no reason to remain on the floor. She got to her feet and looked down at Crane. He made no move to join her. Considering the extent of his injuries, she couldn't blame him for wanting to lie down. If he hadn't been sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor and surrounded by people who had been recruited by the Joker to maim and kill him, Ivy would have let him stay where he was. He looked just too vulnerable down there, though, and she encouraged him to his feet.

Crane stood unsteadily, his hand once again pressed to his shoulder. The wound beneath his fingers was bleeding again. Or maybe it had never stopped bleeding since he'd reopened it while cracking the Joker over the head with that bottle. Either way, the circle of blood extending outward from the stab wound was growing ever larger, and Crane's reserves of blood still inside him were growing ever smaller. He didn't know how close he was to feeling the first real effects of blood loss, but he reckoned the threshold had to be fast approaching.

Without the Joker there to initiate the next part of his vindictive scheme, the clown's recruits were forced to enter an awkward limbo. Black Mask and the Shark stood around like guests at a painfully boring party, unable to find anything worth talking about. Zsasz went off and did his own thing. His own thing consisted of returning to Ivy's utensil drawer and sorting through her collection of knives. Most nosy houseguests were content to search their host's medicine cabinet; Zsasz felt the need to test the heft, balance and sharpness of every blade Ivy owned.

"Don't forget the spoon. See if she's got a wooden one."

Zsasz dropped the garlic press he'd been toying with. That was the Joker's voice. Where was it coming from? The clown wasn't exactly a chameleon, dressed like he was, so he had to be hiding out of sight. Zsasz crouched down and looked under the table. No clown. He opened the refrigerator. No clown, and no food either. Maybe the Joker had been creative or suicidal and had pulled a full-body Silvia Plath. Zsasz checked the oven. No Joker or dead poet.

"If we ever play hide-and-seek, remind me to never let you be 'it'."

Zsasz frowned. He was the master of hide-and-seek, as several of his victims could testify. If they weren't dead, which they were, because Zsasz had found them.

The killer tried to pinpoint where the Joker's voice had come from. It was definitely close by and just a little muffled. The clown was behind a thin barrier. Zsasz scanned the immediate area and the obvious answer presented itself. The Joker was under the sink.

Zsasz opened both doors of the cabinet below the sink. Sure enough, the clown had managed to stuff himself inside.

"Took you long enough! I thought I was going to have to start leaving clues, like a certain dweeb with terrible fashion sense who I won't mention."

"How did you fit under there?" Zsasz asked, tilting his head to get a better idea of exactly how the Joker had contorted himself.

"Well, first I put my legs in. And then I bent my knees. And now I can't unbend them. So get me out of here before I lose circulation." The Joker stuck out his hand, which was about the only part of him not wedged too tightly to move.

Freeing the Joker from under the sink proved to be as difficult as pulling Baby Jessica from a well. The clown seemed to be occupying a space physically too small for him. To make the process even more frustrating, the Joker decided to have zero pain tolerance. Any time Zsasz pulled on his arm and caused the slightest modicum of discomfort, the Joker complained and threatened to sue for pain and suffering. It was only when Zsasz offered to start cutting off body parts until the Joker was free did the clown stop acting as a hindrance to his own rescue.

The Joker finally emerged from his cramped bunker. He stretched like a cat in sunlight and several of his joints popped. He then proceeded to crack his knuckles, his back, and his neck.

Halfway through removing his shoe so he could crack his toes, the Joker was rudely interrupted by Black Mask clearing his throat. The Joker left his shoe half-laced and turned to Black Mask with a frown.

"Nobody wants to smell your putrid feet. And, not to rush you or anything, but what are we going to do with these two?" Black Mask gestured to Crane and Ivy. "Scarecrow did try to shoot you, in case you forgot."

"That's right! He did, didn't he? Well, I certainly can't let that go unpunished. Who knows what he might try to do next," the Joker said. "You can't let scarecrows get away with anything or they'll start thinking they're almost as good as real people."

"Uh-huh. So can we just kill him already? It isn't like I haven't got a criminal empire to run," Black Mask said.

"Same here," White added.

The Joker threw up his hands in exasperation. "Where's the creativity in that? Where's the comedy? Where's the fun?"

"This hasn't been fun since we were firebombed by... Son of a bitch!" Black Mask suddenly exclaimed, pivoting around to look back into the living room.

"I don't remember son of a bitch firebombing us. I thought it was the Riddler. Though son of a bitch would be a much better name for a criminal. I can see the headlines now, and they are hilarious," the Joker said.

Black Mask sprinted from the kitchen, gun in his hand. Everyone except Crane turned to watch him go.

"He must have forgotten to turn off the lights at home. Or maybe he left dinner in the oven," the Joker said with a giggle.

From the living room came a volley of curses, followed by a thump. The thump was followed by a grunt and then another stream of naughty language.

"Somebody's abusing the sofa. Red, tell him how much innocent polyester died to make your furniture possible."

"Why is he abusing the sofa?" the Shark asked.

"Because the Riddler isn't behind it," Crane answered. Miserable and hurt as he was, his brain was still functioning better than anyone else's.

"Got it. So where—"

The rumble of an engine turning on erased the need for White to finish his question. Edward Nigma was trying to fly the coop.

* * *

Author's Notes:

In _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_, Martin Vanger is (spoilers!) a serial killer with a predilection for stringing up his victims.

In _Cloverfield_, the super-huge monster sheds nasty, biting, human-sized parasites.

_Sannakji_ is a Korean dish made with fresh octopus. How fresh? So fresh it's still wiggling.

Poet and novelist Silvia Plath committed suicide by putting her head in an oven and turning on the gas.

Baby Jessica fell down a well and it took 58 hours to get her out.


	31. Here Lie Eddie's Hopes and Dreams

Thanks for the reviews!

With this chapter, _Revenge of the Nerds_ reaches a milestone: 100,000 words. So, woo-hoo! And thanks for sticking with it these long months. What troopers you all must be.

* * *

Ivy's house had seen a lot of running in the past twenty minutes, and it was about to see some more. Black Mask sprinted from the empty living room to the open front door, promising under his breath all the while to do the most horrific things imaginable once he got his hands on the Riddler. He was in the middle of threatening to mate Nigma's hand to an open campfire when the van's quickly receding bumper came into sight.

"No way in hell are you going anywhere," Black Mask said, and dropped to a kneeling shooter's stance.

Black Mask didn't waste time aiming for the tires—he wanted the van operational, not as immobile as a hillbilly's pickup stranded on cinderblocks—and instead shot at the small rear windows. His ammunition was limited, so three shots was all he allowed himself to take. It was, unless he'd gotten sloppy lately, all he would need.

Just as Black Mask had hoped, the van careened wildly to the left. It swerved off the dirt track that served as the driveway and plowed into a wild rose bush Ivy had been fostering. The blooming briar patch consumed the van's hood and tangles of thorns and flowers fell across the windshield. More errant branches scratched at the driver's side window.

"He really can't drive for shit," Black Mask said to himself as he ran toward the rose-engulfed van.

Inside the van, Nigma was clutching the steering wheel and had his foot jammed so tightly against the brake that the pedal was nearly touching the floor. The van had stalled, but Nigma was no more aware of this than he was aware of Black Mask closing in on him. He was far too busy hyperventilating and having a stroke over the bullet hole that had appeared in his windshield and had been made by a round passing within two inches of his head. Two inches! Two inches and his brilliant brain would have been scrambled and splattered all over the van's interior!

And the person responsible for nearly blowing his head off probably wasn't done with him. At that thought, the Riddler's survival instincts kicked in and he was able to gain at least partial control over himself. He pried one hand off the steering wheel and moved it to the gearstick. He shifted the van into reverse and managed to convince his feet to release their tenacious hold on the brake and move to the gas pedal.

To Nigma's immense surprise, flooring the accelerator did nothing. He tried again. The engine did not rev, the tires did not spin, and he did not make a slapdash escape.

"Crap."

What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn't pop the hood and do a thorough examination of all the moving engine parts that might have been damaged or knocked loose; he'd be shot dead before he got the battery terminals. Could he run? Maybe if he was Usain Bolt. Or the Flash. Who might have been Usain Bolt's superhero alias. What about hiding? Nigma craned his neck and looked into the dump that was the rear of the van. Unless he was going to inter himself with newspaper and fast food wrappers, that option sucked just as badly as the others.

If he couldn't flee, hide, or get the van in working order, that left only one option: fighting. Which he was horrible at.

Nigma looked around for a weapon. He remembered the beer bottles he'd turned into firebombs earlier. There wasn't anywhere near enough gasoline left to try that again, but maybe if he smashed a bottle off the dashboard and by some miracle got a clean shot at the sniper's throat…

Before the Riddler could hop into the back of the van and search the trash for a bottle, someone was opening his door and yanking him out by his collar. The Riddler instinctively grabbed onto the steering wheel for support. One hand missed the wheel and instead clutched the screwdriver that had been forced into the ignition switch and served as the van's key. Nigma had the good sense to pull the screwdriver free and jam it in his attacker's direction.

"You little bastard."

One hand left his collar and crushed his wrist instead. The grinding pressure was nearly enough to make Nigma drop his weapon.

"Let go or I'm going to break it."

Nigma opened his hand and the screwdriver fell clattering out of the van.

"Actually, I'm going to break it anyway."

White-hot pain shot from Nigma's fingertips to his elbow. It felt like his bones had been replaced with molten metal. He writhed, kicking madly at the cause of his agony. Black Mask absorbed the frantic, poorly aimed kicks without so much as flinching.

The Riddler had never had the highest pain tolerance and he found himself simultaneously screaming and gibbering anything that came into his mind. Black Mask wasn't swayed by either the howling or the bizarre entreaties and promises—including one made to "Lord Xenu"—and continued to torque the Riddler's bones.

At some point, the pain and pressure became so great that the Riddler lost the ability to form any sort of cohesive speech. He lapsed from disjointed begging into old riddles and anagrams. Black Mask had tortured and killed a lot of people—and he did mean _a lot_, even by Gotham standards—and he'd heard all manner of verbal abuse, desperate pleas, and tearful sniveling. "What stays in the corner as it travels the world?" was still a novelty. It also proved the Riddler was just as insane as everyone at Arkham suspected. What kind of person, while having his arm broken, tried to placate his attacker by asking him outdated brain teasers?

"It's a stamp."

"Yeah, I know. Hey, who—"

Black Mask turned around just in time to catch a shovel to the face. The shovel made a heavy metallic _thunk_ as it rang off Black Mask's namesake. Despite whatever nominal protection his mask offered, he still went down in a stunned heap, letting go of Nigma's wrist as he collapsed.

"And that's what you get for hurtin' Eddie! I don't know what Mr. J was thinkin', bringin' people like you and Mr. Z around, but I ain't gonna put up with it! We were all happy here and then you showed up and now Professor Crane's a mess and my Babies left me and Mr. J has new friends and doesn't want me anymore!" At the end of her massive list of grievances, Harley threw down her shovel and began sobbing.

"You…bitch," Black Mask slurred. Nobody knocked him in the head and got away with it, not even the Joker's girlfriend.

"Kick him!" Nigma shouted.

Harley planted her sneaker in Black Mask's hip. He grunted and grabbed for her leg.

"I meant in the head." Did he have to do all the thinking himself, and with his arm still in such distracting agony?

"Oops, got it." Harley put her gymnastic abilities to good use and socked it to Black Mask once more. He sprawled out in the grass, KO'd.

With Black Mask dreaming whatever dreams people like him dreamed when they were knocked out by grief-stricken clowns, Harley was able to step over his body (and on his gut, just for retribution) and get to the Riddler. Nigma was cradling his arm to his chest and was slumped in his seat. If his posture didn't tell Harley how badly he was hurting, his uneven breathing did the trick.

"Eddie, you gonna be okay?" Harley asked, peering up at him with watery blue eyes.

"No! Yes! If I get out of here before he wakes up! Where's the screwdriver?" Nigma demanded.

"Uh, screwdriver?"

"Yes! I dropped it and now I need it back."

Harley had hardly bent down when the sound of a gunshot sent her scurrying for cover. Black Mask, being substantially larger, made a fine barrier and Harley threw herself behind his unconscious body. Like Killer Croc poking his scaly snout above the water, Harley peeped over her breathing fortification to see who was shooting now.

The Great White Shark—the only other one in possession of a firearm—was coming their way, his gun still pointed up from the warning shot he'd fired. Behind him, even less urgently, Zsasz followed. He was accompanied by his furry vanguard, the sight of which made Harley wail and descend into weeping hysteria all over again.

"If it's any consolation, they only like him because he's covered in blood," Nigma said.

Harley sniffed. "Not really."

Nigma had no intention of adding his own blood to that disgusting stew, and he looked for an escape. His dominant arm felt like it was full of splinters and ghost chili peppers, so he wasn't going to be using that anytime soon. Disabled as he was, his only chance was to slide across to the passenger's side, open that door, and try to run. Maybe Harley could provide enough of a distraction for him to reach his scooter, hidden in the bushes behind the house. If it came down to the most fearsome killers in Gotham learning the Riddler rode a Hello Kitty Vespa and living, or keeping his dignity and dying, Nigma was prepared to give his pride the finger and leave it on the side of the road.

Careful to keep his throbbing arm as immobile as possible, Nigma switched to the passenger's seat. He pushed the door open with his left hand and found his escape blocked by a curtain of damaged roses that fell into the van. Like a turtle's head retracting into its shell, Nigma pulled his hand into his sleeve. Thus protected, he parted the thorny mass and ducked out.

Harley was unaware that she had been abandoned. It was only after she tried asking Nigma what they should do five times and receiving no answer that she looked behind her and discovered the van was empty. It wasn't like she expected the Riddler to gallantly ward off the Shark and Zsasz, and win her hyenas back for her—Harley might have been delusional, but she wasn't crazy enough to expect the Riddler to fight off anything more menacing than a cockroach—but someone to hide behind would have been nice.

"And to think I saved his butt! It's true, Harls, a girl can't rely on anybody these days." Harley felt familiar tears form at the corners of her eyes. Why did everyone she like run away and leave her?

While Harley sniffled, the Riddler crept around the rose bush. He had to time his rush to freedom perfectly. Ideally he wanted to escape notice for as long as possible. Though he was fast, Crane had managed to catch him, despite a substantial lead. Nigma had no idea how fast White could run—if he'd had a few toes frozen off when he'd lost his fingers, the answer was probably not very—but Zsasz moved at the extreme end of the human spectrum. If the Riddler mistimed his moment, the killer would be on him like a mountain lion on an oblivious jogger.

Harley provided more of a distraction than the Riddler could have hoped for, though he doubted she was doing it intentionally to help him. She, either because she was too distraught to care about the gun in White's hand or she figured he wouldn't kill her out of professional courtesy, stood up. She then laid into both Zsasz and White with the ferocity of the Baskervilles hound. Or a very angry seven-year-old.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Got it the first time," White said.

"You don't even have a nose!"

"Ouch. Don't make fun of my disability or I'll call Al Sharpton."

With Harley's tantrum providing cover, the Riddler snuck a quick peek at Zsasz and the Shark and decided the time had arrived. He edged away from the protective rose bush and, when he was not immediately spotted, made a break for his scooter.

Nigma intended to give the scene as wide a berth as he could, even though mathematically the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. He was more than happy to run a little extra if it allowed him to stay in the background and not draw any eyes to himself.

Unfortunately, Nigma's safe distance proved to be not quite far enough. Zsasz caught something on the periphery of his vision and, like any good hunter, did not ignore it. He turned his head away from Harley—that only seemed to make her angrier and shriller, not that he cared—and spotted the Riddler. Before he could pursue, Bud and Lou decided they wanted to play with Nigma and bolted after him.

Twin mounds of fur plowed into the Riddler and knocked him off his feet. Before he could even make sense of what had happened, Bud and Lou were snuffling their noses into his clothes, licking his hands and face, and stepping all over his injured arm. The hyenas interpreted Nigma's pitiful howling and squirming as another part of the game and proceeded to roughhouse harder.

"Bad Babies! Don't kill Eddie!" Harley shouted.

The hyenas were having too much fun snorting into the Riddler's pockets to care what their matriarch ordered. Harley stormed away from the van and toward the almost cartoonish chaos. White and Zsasz, having nothing better to do, stayed back and watched.

Like a furious parent grabbing her child by the ear, Harley somehow managed to grab both Bud and Lou's collars and gave them a quick yank. The hyenas yelped and instantly snapped to attention like cavorting soldiers at the appearance of a general.

"You better be sorry! You can't hang around with people like Mr. Z! He's a bad influence. Look how he's got you behavin'. Jumpin' all over poor Eddie's busted arm," Harley scolded.

Lou licked Harley's hand. Bud nuzzled her knee. Harley forgot why she had ever been angry or jealous in the first place. Nigma still wasn't sure what had happened, only that he was wet and sticky and smelled like the zoo.

"Doesn't that just warm your heart? I mean, if you have one. Which I don't think either of us do," White said.

"My court-appointed attorney would agree with you." Zsasz rolled up his sleeve and pointed to the third tally in a fairly fresh grouping. "If he was capable of agreeing to anything anymore."

"You've got to get yourself a better lawyer. Some of the people they try to dump on you, and by 'you' I mean the financially disenfranchised, are Saul Goodman quality at best. If they don't have their own security, they're not worth it."

"I'll tell the judge that next time I'm arraigned."

"Just remember what the Constitution says— Hey! Look who's back on his feet. Want to take him down this time, Vic?"

Harley was too busy having a tearful, cathartic reunion with her pets to notice or care that the Riddler had crawled away from the fracas. He was no longer sure whether it was more important to reach his scooter, or a shower. He swiped at his face with his sleeve, trying to clear some of the hyena drool off his cheek. In a tragedy of Shakespearean magnitude, he discovered his sleeve had been just as thoroughly slobbered upon. Nigma almost wept. He was never going to feel clean again.

Being slammed into the ground so hard it felt like his ribcage collapsed did not make Nigma's bleak outlook brighten, though it did take his mind off the hyena drool. Following the impact, the Riddler felt like a fish zapped by an electric eel. He was stunned senseless, unable to move, hardly able to breathe.

"I told you to stop."

Nigma felt a hand grab a hold of his jacket at the shoulder and, with a grunt, whoever the hand belonged to flipped the Riddler like a green flapjack.

"Nobody ever listens to me. You're good with questions, so why do you think that is?"

The Riddler moaned. He was in agony, he still couldn't catch his breath properly, and, because he'd been tackled with his mouth open, he tasted sod. He was in no mood to answer questions, especially ones so asinine even the Bat could solve them without any help.

"Because you're a sociopath and you kill people if you catch them. Ergo, the logical thing is not to stop and talk with you, but to run away. You're also in all likelihood a terrible conversationalist," Nigma replied.

It was a thankless profession, being smarter than everyone else, and not for the first time the Riddler found himself being dragged away by someone who didn't like his wise (and wiseass) answers. For a change of pace, at least this time it wasn't a man dressed like a bat who was towing Nigma like he was a caveman's bride. Though, Nigma mused, he would have preferred Batman over the scarred psychopath who would only get marginally creepier if he changed his named to Leatherface and started wearing his victims.

Zsasz dragged Nigma across the yard, past Harley, who had recovered enough emotionally to gawk at the Riddler, and deposited him at the rear of the van, just outside the scattered field of rose branches that had been catapulted from their mother bush.

"Sit. Stay. If the hyenas are smart enough to understand that, so are you," Zsasz said.

Nigma puffed himself up like an angry chicken. A moment before he started squawking, Zsasz performed a feat of prestidigitation and made Ivy's paring knife appear out of thin air. Nigma deflated faster than an orphan's hopes and dreams.

Zsasz walked around the corner of the van and disappeared from sight. He returned thirty seconds later, this time dragging Black Mask with all the deference he'd show a heavy sandbag. Zsasz dropped the still-unconscious Black Mask next to the Riddler. One of Black Mask's arms flopped upon impact and his hand ended up in the Riddler's lap.

"Don't tell the Joker!" Nigma blurted out as he shucked off the hand and scooted away.

"Don't worry. If he won't, I will," White replied. "I need something to make this weedy dump bearable, even if it's just the Joker calling you gay."

The Shark turned and looked toward Ivy's house. "Come on, I don't like leaving the undisputed queen of the weeds without adult supervision. She's probably got castrating begonias stashed somewhere and I don't want to meet them."

Zsasz grabbed Black Mask under the arms and began hauling him. The Shark wasn't going to do the same for Nigma. He instead drew his gun and gestured with it. Nigma received the message loud and clear. He got to his feet and followed the trail Black Mask's dragged lower half left in the grass.

"What about Harley?" Nigma asked.

"What about her? She'll wander inside eventually," White replied.

"She won't act as your accomplice. She considers Crane, Ivy and I to be her friends. She even has pet names for us."

White laughed. "Harley Quinn is your ace in the hole? Harley. Quinn. You are desperate. Can't say I blame you. I wouldn't want to be you on a good day, you OCD reject, but when Black Mask wakes up with the mother of all headaches…"

The Riddler swallowed compulsively. Maybe he wouldn't wake up. Maybe Harley's kick had fractured his skull, damaged his brain, or at the very least given him permanent and unrecoverable amnesia.

Up ahead, Zsasz came to a stop. He crouched down and inclined his head, putting his ear next to Black Mask's mouth. A moment later he rose again, leaving Black Mask not slumped unconscious but sitting under his own power.

"I've got a message to deliver," Zsasz said.

Zsasz locked eyes with the Riddler and then ever-so-slowly drew his finger across his throat.

"And that's after he breaks every bone in your body and feeds you your tongue."

Edward Nigma experienced something Jonathan Crane had experienced the night before: the desertion of all hope.

* * *

Author's notes:

Olympic runner Usain Bolt is the fastest man alive. But not, so far as I know, the Flash's alter-ego.

Lord Xenu is a deity from Scientology who, according to said religion, was fond of volcanoes and hydrogen bombs.

The Hound of the Baskervilles is a giant glowing dog from a Sherlock Holmes mystery.

Al Sharpton is a controversial civil rights leader.

Saul Goodman is the less-than-classy lawyer from _Breaking Bad_.

Leatherface is the villain from _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_.


	32. Lavender Town

Thanks for the reviews! And, as par the course, sorry for the wait.

* * *

If hyenas were not allowed on the furniture, sadistic masked gangsters didn't belong on the couch, either, and if Ivy believed she could have voiced that sentiment without retribution, she would have.

Unfortunately, retribution came with a better guarantee than most new cars. Black Mask, no doubt concussed and feeling like he'd been hit on the head by a falling satellite after a hard night of drinking, was sprawled on the couch, one hand pressed to his forehead and the other hand on his gun. He looked like he was ready to shoot the next plant that conducted photosynthesis too loudly, never mind the next plant-lady who called him worse than an animal.

"I found peas."

Black Mask's gun swung listlessly until it was pointed at the speaker. The speaker, had he wanted to, could have crossed the room and torn the gun from Black Mask's hand in the time it had taken him to raise and aim the weapon. The speaker did not feel threatened—and was sure of his own speed on the off chance he misjudged Black Mask's intentions—and thus let Black Mask point the weapon where he pleased.

"What the hell do I care?" Black Mask replied, sounding as though he wouldn't be impressed until Jimmy Hoffa, D.B. Cooper and Bigfoot were all caught together in the same poker game.

"I thought they might help your headache."

"Zsasz, do us all a favor and stick to killing people. _Heat_ is good for headaches. Go microwave them and then try to get on my good side," Black Mask said.

"Come on, Vic, what kind of monster doesn't warm up his peas before he puts them on another man's head? I mean, warm peas are gross enough, but cold, that would be like—" the Joker said.

"If the next words out of your mouth are anything to do with Mr. Freeze and R. Kelly, I am going to shoot you in the throat," Black Mask warned.

"You can't shoot what you can't see. Oh, and thanks for ruining the punch line!"

A moment after the Joker's frustrated words, a strange electronic beeping emerged from behind the couch. Black Mask growled. The beeping increased in frequency and was interspersed with shrieks, zaps and thuds.

"I can't see you, but I can hear that, whatever it is. Turn it off and get out from behind there or die."

Up-tempo music replaced the sounds of digital battle. Black Mask concentrated for a moment, and then placed his gun's muzzle against the back of the couch. Before Ivy could protest the wanton destruction of her property, there was a smoking hole in the sofa, and, unbeknownst to her, in the wall.

"Goddamn it!" Black Mask dropped his gun into his lap so he could clutch at his head with both hands. Somehow he'd been so intent on stopping the music he hadn't factored in how much worse a gunshot would be on his throbbing head.

The Joker crawled out from his not-so-secret lair with a pout on his face and a broken game system in hand.

"I just got the Thunder Badge, and now all my Pokémon, well, Harley's Pokémon, are dead." The Joker held up the Game Boy, its screen shattered and a radius of cracks spreading out from a dead-center shot, so everyone could get a good look at the carnage.

Once he'd waved around the ruined Game Boy enough, the Joker threw it over his shoulder, bored with it. He couldn't play it anymore, and the great human tragedy that was a permanently deleted Charmeleon, Butterfree, Diglett, and Pikachu only rendered hearts for so long.

Because Fate tended to be a sadistic bitch and stomp on people who were already having bad days, the Game Boy landed at Harley's feet. Bud trotted forward, picked the Game Boy up in his mouth, and trotted back outside to bury it. Harley hadn't been welcomed home so poorly since the time the Joker greeted her by electrifying the door knob.

"Mister J…that was mine," Harley said tearfully.

"He shot it! I was playing nice for once. I was even going to name one of those little monsters after you. Maybe that fish one," the Joker replied.

"You are not getting your crazy girlfriend mad at me! I warned you and you kept at it. You're lucky you've still got a head, because anyone else who pisses me off like that dies," Black Mask said.

"What about Eddie? He's still alive. You can't try to make me feel special if the Riddler gets the same treatment," the Joker said.

"Trust me, you do _not_ want the same treatment I'm going to give him. Just as soon as my head stops killing me."

"You can't kill Eddie!" Harley cried.

"You're lucky I'm not killing you, Quinn. You hit me with a shovel!"

"Only 'cause you were breakin' Eddie's arm and he needs that arm."

"Yeah, he does. For _ego stroking_. If you know what I mean." The Joker mimed exactly what he meant, in case anyone in the room had Castiel's grip of human sexual euphemisms.

The Joker was loud and obnoxious enough for his voice to carry into the kitchen, where the subject of his naughty jokes was bound to a chair with duct tape, and his oft-flapping yap was silenced by a strip of the same. The man who had taped him to the chair had done a fine job of it, especially considering his missing fingers. So fine a job that the Riddler could hardly wiggle or flex his fingers, never mind loosen the tape enough to escape.

"Once again, this is what hired help is for. I'm getting a little sick of whacking weeds and trussing up the prisoners," the Shark said as he tossed the diminished roll of duct tape onto the counter.

Nigma practically screamed something into the tape across his mouth that was supposed to be "let me out of here and I'll appreciate you and never ask you to do anything subservient," but came out as gibberish. Said gibberish was probably the least egotistical thing Nigma had ever said, if only because nobody could understand it.

The Shark settled his dark eyes on Nigma. He'd never really felt one way or another about the Riddler. They operated in different spheres and with different purposes, and generally, at least on White's side, cared about each other's activities about as much as penguins cared what okapis did with their spare time. So long as the Riddler stayed out of his way and stuck to his little mental pissing contests with Batman, the Great White Shark had plenty of other more important things to concern himself with.

Of course, that mutual ambivalence also meant Nigma wasn't getting any help from the Shark. The Riddler was a little fish, but the man whose lair he'd burned down, now that was a big fish. White wasn't into taking high-risk, low-return bets against anyone, especially not somebody with a reputation like Black Mask's. He liked his head and entrails right where they were, thank you very much.

"I'm finished, and I expect to get paid for my time," White called into the living room, where Black Mask had pulled a decorative throw pillow over his head to block out the Joker's antics.

"Good luck," Zsasz muttered. He decided he'd been standing at the threshold like an awkward prom date, with his frozen peas in hand, for long enough. He threw the melting peas into the sink and pulled up a chair from the table.

"Neither of us is exactly used to this. This being ignored crap. It sucks, doesn't it?" the Shark asked.

Zsasz grunted. Yes, it sucked. Yes, he wasn't used to it. No, he probably was never going to contribute anything of value or depth to a conversation.

"I'm thinking we should leave."

"How?" Zsasz asked. He'd seen the van buried in the rosebush, and had it been in working order, Nigma wouldn't have abandoned it.

"As long as the van isn't totaled, I might be able to fix it."

Zsasz laughed at the idea of the Shark as a grease monkey. People like White knew how to be rich and powerful. They knew exactly where the salad fork went, and how to craft a business card Patrick Bateman would swoon over. When it came to the workings of an internal combustion engine, though, CEOs didn't know the distributer cap from a jar of pickles, except to say that a jar of pickles probably shouldn't be in an engine. Zsasz knew this from personal experience. In what felt like another life, he'd been a member of the one percent. He might have even owned a sweater vest.

"You don't have Humpty Dumpty for a cellmate and not learn how to put broken things together again," White replied.

"He crashed a subway train. And who was it he dissected? His mother?" Zsasz said.

"Grandmother, and in his defense, she was a bitch. But he's gotten better, and that van's from the 80's, anyway. Engines were simpler then."

Zsasz smiled and reclined in his chair. "Keep telling yourself that. I'm not getting into anything repaired by a student of Humpty Dumpty."

"I wouldn't exactly feel comfortable sharing an enclosed space with you, either."

Nigma kicked his feet and rattled his chair and made noises like a well-wrapped, freshly animated mummy might make. He was trying to say that all this speculation was moot anyway. The van wasn't just broken, it was stuck in the middle of a thorny bush. Unless somebody called in Superman or a tow truck to move it out of the rosebush, it was impossible to get under the hood to see if a spark plug or battery cable had come loose, or if the whole engine had gone home to automotive Jesus.

The kicking and muffled speech and rocking chair legs against linoleum could only be successfully ignored for a limited amount of time. When the people doing the ignoring where already not in the best mood and were feeling underappreciated, that safe zone shrunk dramatically.

"I don't know what he wants, but why don't you go shut him up?" White suggested.

Zsasz pulled one of Ivy's knives from his belt and stalked over to Nigma. The Riddler forgot all about offering advice and tried to shrink down in his seat. The duct tape kept him from turning into a smaller target, but he didn't dare hope the tape would do anything to stop Zsasz from jamming that knife between his ribs.

Zsasz placed the tip on the knife on Nigma's Adam's apple and then, to Nigma's surprise, pulled the tape from his mouth. The surprise turned into pain and righteous indignation a moment later when the sensation of having every hair follicle on his face ripped out made the Riddler's eyes water.

"Why did you do that? Now he can talk," White huffed.

"He has one opportunity to talk, and if he says something I don't like, it will be the last time he ever speaks again," Zsasz replied, jabbing the knife just a little deeper. "Now what do you have to say that's so important?"

Nigma swallowed and tried to ignore the blade poised inches from the arteries responsible for servicing his brain with oxygen. He would have had better luck ignoring avoiding campaign ads in late October.

"The van's in the bush," Nigma finally managed to say. "You can't access it unless you can tow it out."

"You had such a conniption fit to tell us _that_? I should cut your throat and put you out of your misery."

"But! But I have another means of transportation! I didn't come here in the van originally, you see, and my original vehicle would actually be a wise choice for either of you. It's got a helmet that would hide your…distinguishing faces," Nigma explained.

"So it's a motorcycle." White would have whistled, but lacking lips, he hadn't quite managed to relearn yet. "You're the last person I would imagine on one of those."

"Er, not exactly a motorcycle." Nigma discovered he could still blush even when held at knifepoint.

White should have figured. Of the many things Nigma was, cool enough to ride like Daryl Dixon was not one of them.

"So a scooter. Is it something with any dignity?" White asked.

"That would depend on your definition of dignity. Actually, no, it wouldn't. The answer it no."

"Is it a girl's scooter?"

The Riddler's face turned nearly an identical shade as his hair. That was all the answer White needed.

"Is it pink?"

A tiny, barely perceptible nod, all the Riddler could risk with the knife at his throat. Nigma had hoped against hope that he wouldn't be asked any questions, that someone would jump at the opportunity to escape Hell House. Of course he'd been wrong. It was one of those days where everything was a personal apocalypse.

"And you expected me to what, untie you and let you take me out to wherever you hid your girly bike, providing you with a chance to run away again? Nice plan. Too bad I'm not a moron. Thanks, Zsasz, now shut him back up," White said.

Zsasz willingly obliged, keeping his knife on Nigma until he had slapped the tape back over his mouth. That accomplished, he straightened up and returned to his seat.

The Shark wasn't willing to take anything else sitting down. He was restless, he'd been used, and he was getting a little grouchy from not having slept. He didn't escape from Arkham often—he was fully capable of handling his business from the inside and then, when confronted, waving an innocent hand around his bare cell—but when he did get out, he wanted to enjoy himself. He'd been out more than twelve hours, and he hadn't even eaten yet! It was like going on vacation to Disney World and then being stranded on the tarmac in Orlando.

White pulled his phone from his pocket and glowered at it. He had a network of contacts ranging from street-rats and thugs to white-collar criminals he'd known for years and had collected enough dirt on to bury a mile deep should the need arise. All of those tendrils amounted to _bupkis_ because White had no address to give them. White had only the vaguest notion of where he was—he'd been lost since Nigma had pulled off the highway—and there was not even any sort of familiar landmark, never mind a street sign, that could identify his location.

"Could you stop that? You're making me nauseous with the back-and-forth, back-and-forth."

It was only after White stopped that he realized he'd been pacing. And then, while he'd been pacing, he'd been interrupted. Nobody interrupted him when he was pacing.

"As respected competition, I don't want to shoot you. But if you don't let me pace when I desperately need to, I will," White growled.

"I've got a concussion and I'm still twice the shot you'll ever be," Black Mask replied, sitting up straight on the couch and flashing his own piece.

"Ray Charles couldn't miss at this range, so I hardly see the point."

"You aren't Ray Charles."

Black Mask and the Shark watched each other like two gunslingers waiting for the town clock to strike noon. Since none of the clocks in Ivy's house bonged on the hour, and since it was still a long time until noon, the two gunslingers had to be waiting for another cue.

Whatever the cue was, Ivy had no intention of letting them wait for it. She'd already seen her couch and kitchen floor shot and wasn't going to abide any more destruction to her property.

"Put your guns down, get out of each other's face, and I'll make tea!" Ivy shouted.

"Or, and here's an idea I like better, you put these on, spin around three times, and then shoot." The Joker held up two black knee-length socks, obviously Harley's, that he had repurposed as blindfolds.

The Joker's idea was so wildly irresponsible and likely to result in grievous if not fatal bodily harm that Black Mask and the Shark forgot all about their little staring match and instead fixed incredulous looks on the Joker. The clown dropped the socks, held up his index finger to signal that he needed a moment but patience would be rewarded, and then pulled an air horn from his sleeve.

"And this could signal the start of the festivities," the Joker said.

"Where- Where in the hell did you even find that?" Black Mask asked.

"Same place I found the socks. And this framed portrait of yours truly." The Joker, like a magician producing a never-ending scarf, next pulled a picture of himself from his sleeve.

Harley blushed furiously as Ivy glared at her. Ivy had a zero-tolerance no-Joker policy and well-kissed pictures of the Clown Prince of Crime trampled all over it.

"Uh, that's not mine and I got no idea how it got there!" To avoid further engendering Ivy's wrath, which was, thanks to all the uninvited guests and their destructive ways, already pretty damn engendered, Harley scurried into the kitchen to take up Ivy's offer of tea. She opened up the cupboard where Ivy kept her assortment of teas and began to sort through the boxes.

Nobody, not even the Mad Hatter, ever experienced a sharper jump in heart rate over tea than Ivy did as she watched Harley shuffle around boxes of tea. Her plan, and by proxy several lives, hung in the balance of what she and Harley did over the next minute. One wrong move, one hastily chosen tea bag, and things would fall to pieces.

Ivy told herself not to act naturally, but to act how the others in the room expected her to act: as the raging green bitch who valued dandelions more than she valued people. Steeling herself for what had to be the performance of a lifetime, Ivy took a deep breath and scared ten years off of Harley's life.

"Harley, put that down and get away from there before I lock you in the shed!" Ivy roared.

Harley squeaked and dropped the canister of loose-leaf gunpowder tea that she'd been reading. The canister struck the counter, bounced, and hit the floor. Its lid popped off and its contents spread across the floor.

"Oops. Sorry, Red, I'll go get the broom," Harley said.

"That's exactly what you'll do! Do you know how hard it is to find real fair-trade tea? Harder than it would be for you to find a better boyfriend!"

"But Mister J's the only guy for me."

"Then find a girl. Or a dog. Or a salamander. But first find the broom."

While Harley set off on her quest for the broom closet, Ivy straightened out the tea cupboard. Once it had a semblance of order, she reached into the very back and pulled out her special brand of chamomile.

Ten minutes later the floor was clean and Ivy was dispensing mugs of fragrant amber tea. Or trying to dispense then. Despite her master brewing skills, Ivy couldn't get anyone except the Joker to take a cup, and all he did with it was pretend to be British and do an abhorrent job of it.

"It isn't poison," Ivy said. "It's chamomile."

"Red's right, it is good. She gives it to me every time I cry about Mister J, and then I feel better. Gimme my cup and I'll show 'em," Harley said.

Black Mask watched Harley blow on her mug and decided Ivy wouldn't poison her bouncy little friend. He'd also heard _somewhere_ that herbal teas were good for your health. He didn't hope for one moment that a cup of dried leaves soaked in hot water would cure his headache, but maybe it could take the edge off.

"I'll have what she's having," Black Mask said.

Ivy handed over a cup. Black Mask held it in his hands until he saw Harley start to drink. Once she did, he took a tentative sip.

"It doesn't taste like lawn clippings." Black Mask took another, less hesitant swallow.

"Why the hell not? I'm not paying for it," White said. "And what about you, Zsasz?"

Zsasz looked at Ivy and the faintest of detectable smiles upturned his lips. "No, thank you."

Ivy barely managed to avoid dropping her tea cup. She'd been had, probably from the moment she pulled the tea from the shelf. So why hadn't Zsasz said anything? If he'd known from the beginning, he no doubt could have stabbed her and gotten a round of applause for revealing her scheme.

Before Ivy or Zsasz could speak, Harley yawned and stumbled into the Joker. He caught her and she batted sleep-drunk eyes at him.

"Hi, Puddin'. I think it's nap time," Harley said. She promptly slumped against her lover and fell asleep.

"What in the hell…is in this…tea?" Black Mask demanded, his words slurring.

Black Mask tried to raise his gun but was dragged off to dream land before he could get his finger on the trigger. He collapsed onto the sofa with one arm dangling off the side and the hand that held his gun lying on the floor.

The Shark had been an instant from swallowing when Harley dropped. He spat out his tea and threw his mug on the floor, shattering it.

"Can somebody tell me what's going on?" White asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Zsasz stood up and grinned. "We get the couch now."

* * *

Author's Notes (and damn, there are a lot of them!)

Jimmy Hoffa, D.B. Cooper and Bigfoot are all hide-and-seek champions, as none of them has ever been found.

R. Kelly allegedly appeared in a video where he allegedly peed on an allegedly underage woman. Allegedly.

The Thunder Badge was earned by defeating Lieutenant Surge in the Pokémon series. In case anyone's childhood isn't rushing back to them. And also, as Poké-Bane said, "When the Thunder Badge is earned, you have my permission to fly." Ha ha.

On the TV show _Supernatural_, Castiel is an angel who watches porn for the plot and whose greatest insult is "ass-butt".

In the movie _American Psycho_, high-powered businessmen including Patrick Bateman all try to outdo each other's business cards.

In the graphic novel _Arkham Asylum: Living Hell_, White's cellmate, Humpty Dumpty (who is large and egg-shaped) tries to fix everything from trains to people but always ends up breaking them.

Professional bad-ass Daryl Dixon is from _The Walking Dead_.

Ray Charles is a blind musician.


	33. Storage Space

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The Great White Shark wasn't as complacent as Zsasz was when faced with Black Mask and Harley Quinn dropping within seconds of each other after drinking Ivy's tea. He aimed his gun at Ivy and with his other hand gestured at the still bodies, one draped over the couch and the other sprawled across the Joker's lap.

"Want to tell me what the hell?" White asked.

"It's chamomile," Ivy replied.

"Right, and I'm voting for Obama."

"Good."

"Remember who's holding the gun, okay? What did you slip them?"

Ivy sighed. Again, really? Why was potent chamomile such a point of contention with everyone? If she'd said she had a giant Venus flytrap in her greenhouse, nobody would have doubted her claim for a moment. At least she had a good rebuttal already in her repertoire.

"I breed vines that strangle people, my kiss can kill, and if you saw the plants in my greenhouse, you'd never walk past a florist again without breaking into a cold sweat. Knock-out chamomile surprises you why?" Ivy asked.

If White had had lips, he would have pursed them. As much as White didn't want to concede, Ivy was convincing. Turning bedtime tea into a biological weapon wasn't much of a stretch considering the other man-eating and toxic green giants Ivy had unleashed on her enemies.

"Alright, I believe you. That doesn't mean I'm happy about it," White said.

"But what's not to love? Black Mask isn't bitching anymore and I can do this." The Joker lifted Harley's limp arms and flopped them, turning her into his unconscious little wiggling puppet.

"Stop that!" Ivy hissed.

"If you didn't want me to do it, you shouldn't have put Harley to sleep. Right?"

"Right-o, Mister J! If you're saying it, it must be true." The Joker, in a voice that sounded more like Alvin, Simon, and Theodore than it did like Harley, continued his foray into ventriloquism.

"You're right, it is nice not to have Black Mask moaning about his headache. How long will that tea keep him out?" White asked.

"I don't know exactly," Ivy replied.

"So guess."

"Four to six hours, depending on his metabolism and how much he actually drank."

"And we're talking a deep sleep here?"

"Harley isn't complaining when I do this." The Joker licked his finger and jammed it into Harley's ear.

White was satisfied. He lowered his gun and picked up the duct tape from the counter.

Ten minutes later, Black Mask was trussed up like a rodeo calf. His hands were bound behind his back with duct tape and his legs had been likewise secured, with tape wrapped around his ankles and knees. He'd also been relieved of his weapons: the gun everyone knew about, and the knife holstered to his ankle that White had happened upon while applying the tape.

"Now what are you going to do with him?" Ivy asked from the kitchen.

"Didn't you mention something about a shed?" White said.

It took some convincing to get Zsasz off the couch—he'd turned on the television and become deeply immersed in a show about how kitchen knives, socks, and mannequins were made—but eventually he and the Shark wrestled their Black Mask burrito out to the shed.

"What are we going to do when he wakes up and finds himself out here?" Zsasz asked as he shut the shed door.

"If he gets out of that tape and comes looking for a head to hunt, we blame-storm," White replied. "And we make sure Ivy and the Joker are in the eye of that storm."

Zsasz must have been satisfied with the plan, as he said nothing further. He and White walked back toward Ivy's house with an ominous, restless silence between them. Or maybe it was just ominous and restless on White's side. Zsasz seemed as at peace as a man of his psychotic mentality could be.

While the Shark and Zsasz had been off doing the heavy lifting, the Joker had taken control of the couch and usurped the television. Whatever quasi-informative show Zsasz had been watching was replaced with two angry orange Italians shouting at each other in a language that had only the most tenuous of connections to English. Ivy and Harley were nowhere in sight.

"No, we are not watching that. Find something else, and do it quick," White said. "I've still got plenty of duct tape left, and there's more than enough room in the shed."

The Joker pouted but changed the channel. He must have pressed the buttons at random, because a news program came on. The clown stuck out his tongue and went to find something animated and obnoxious. Before he could subject anyone to Nickelodeon, the remote control was wrested from his hand and his butt was forcibly dragged from the couch.

"Trust me, you'll want to see this," White said.

"Is Texas finally televising executions? I've been writing to the governor and suggesting it for _years_," the Joker said.

"No, sorry, but keep writing. Make sure you use short, simple words, and tell them Dick Cheney would enjoy it. I know the guy and he would."

It might not have been television graphic enough for the Panem Capitol, but it was a breaking news report about the latest capture of an Arkham escapee. It appeared Killer Moth had been apprehended not by the police, the National Guard, or Batman, but by a mother-daughter team of jewelers who moonlighted as black-belt ass-kicking machines. Killer Moth had chosen the wrong jewelry store to hit, and the surveillance footage showed how badly he'd paid.

"If I was ever humiliated like that, I'd just shoot myself," White said as the younger of the two jewelers unleashed a furious haymaker that knocked Killer Moth's helmet askew.

His visor now admitting light to his ears but not his eyes, Killer Moth stumbled away from the pair of jewelers and into a glass display case. The Joker snickered as the sorry excuse for a villain tugged at his helmet in a desperate attempt to restore his vision. He guffawed when Killer Moth pulled off the helmet and was socked in the face by the maternal half of the duo. And when both women grabbed Killer Moth's arms, dragged him to the ground, and sat on him, the Joker manifested what it meant to truly ROFL.

"Are you enjoying yourself or having a seizure?" the Shark asked as the Joker convulsed on the floor.

"Haven't you ever heard," the Joker wheezed between gales of gut-bursting laughter, "the phrase 'paroxysms of joy'? That's what I'm having."

"Can you have them quieter? Or, better yet, stop having them altogether? Look, the video's over."

On the screen, a pair of news anchors, one of whom was covering his mouth with his hand and trying to hold back laughs the way a freshman frat boy holds back puke, had taken the place of the jewelry store surveillance footage. The female anchor elbowed her partner and, when it looked like he wasn't going to be able to pull himself together before the silence got awkward and the news-starved public got antsy, continued the story by herself.

"And that was the scene at Jacobi Jewelers this morning as Anne and Emily Jacobi turned the tables on would-be robber Drury Walker, perhaps better known by his alias Killer Moth. Walker escaped from—"

The male anchor interrupted the newscast by abandoning all professional pretexts and collapsing on the desk in one of the most ill-timed giggle fits ever recorded. His humorless partner gave him a look that could have split stone and withered crabgrass.

White turned the TV off before the newsman's laughter could turn contagious and get the Joker going again.

"Put my show back on," Zsasz said.

"Put it on yourself." White tossed the remote to Zsasz and stood up. "I'm going to see if there's anything to eat."

"There isn't."

That news sobered the Joker quicker than a cold shower and a pot of coffee. "What do you mean there's no food?"

"Remember when we were playing hide and seek? I looked in the refrigerator and there was _no food_. That's what I mean," Zsasz replied.

"Did you look everywhere? There's got to be something. Ivy has to eat, doesn't she? Where the hell is Ivy, anyway? Or Crane? And weren't you playing with Harley when we took Black Mask to the shed?" White asked.

"I was, but then I got bored. Red was nice enough to put her away for me," the Joker said.

"Put her away? You know what, never mind. Phrase it however you want. As long as I'm not going to trip on her."

* * *

The only way the Great White Shark was going to trip on Harley would be if he went upstairs, entered her room, climbed on her bed, and somehow neglected to notice the snoring lump beneath the sheets. Since he could hardly find the motivation to wander into the kitchen and open a few cupboard doors, Harley could count herself safe from plodding feet.

A door down from where Harley slept, Ivy was discovering a whole new, never-before-glimpsed level of exhaustion. She thought she understood what it meant to be tired after ten minutes of sleep all night, endless worrying and pacing, contending with the most evil men Gotham had to throw at her, and hauling Harley up the stairs fireman-style. It was not, however, until she was able to slump down on her bed that she realized she had passed "tired" about a thousand miles back. She was now in an unexplored territory of total and complete physical and emotional soul-deep weariness.

"I'm glad you're alive."

Ivy propped herself up on her elbows and looked to her left. In case she needed further proof of how fatigued her brain was, she had somehow forgotten about half-dragging a mad scientist super-villain into her bed and then leaving him there like yesterday's laundry.

"I can handle those primitives," Ivy replied.

"That's excellent news, because they almost killed me."

Ivy had hoped that, while she'd been drugging Gotham's worst nightmares with tea, Crane would have dozed off. Now she realized how foolish a hope that had been. There was no possible way for Crane to lie comfortably, not with his shoulders and arms slashed front and back. He had lain awake and in what had to be monstrous pain, and he'd been worrying about Ivy's safety.

Not that there was any reason for him to worry, of course. Ivy could handle Batman, the police, polluting industries, and any gutter-trash that washed her way.

"Black Mask is unconscious in the shed," Ivy reported. "I had to knock Harley out, too."

"Probably for the best. Otherwise I'm sure she and the clown would fall into despicable debauchery."

There was silence as both Crane and Ivy grabbed the reins and steered their brains toward any image or idea except that of Harley and the Joker shagging. Crane escaped to somewhere dark and scary. Ivy went to a humid, green jungle filled with plants that would make the Royal Botanical Gardens insane with jealousy.

After the danger of imagining naked clowns ensconced in love's wacky fury passed, Ivy and Crane returned to the pressing matter of how to stay alive and deal with what was still a magnificent team of psychopaths.

"What are we going to do, Jonathan?" No reason not to be direct, Ivy figured.

"Die, in all likelihood," Crane replied.

"I don't accept that."

"I'm sorry. I meant to say the two of us, and by that, I mean you, since I can hardly move my arms without wanting to scream, are going to take out a serial killer who wears his body count on his skin, Bernie Madoff meets Jaws, and a psychotic clown who's immune to all your poisons and charm. And that's if Black Mask doesn't get out of the shed."

Ivy sat up just so she could cross her arms and glare down at Crane. "We outsmarted Batman, didn't we? And how many times do you think he's pummeled everyone downstairs unconscious?"

"We were unbelievably lucky. Batman was misinformed and weakened from a concussion brought on by a toaster. Otherwise, he would have done what he's best at: kicking our asses."

"Then we get lucky again!"

Crane opened both his hands to reveal empty palms. "I seem to have misplaced my lucky rabbit's foot, four-leaf-clover, dice kissed by the most sluttish woman in the room, and whatever else might have helped us."

Ivy growled and bunched up two handfuls of bed sheets. Though it was difficult to tell from his position, with plants only available at the periphery of his vision, Crane was pretty sure the vines and flowers that filled the room were reacting to Ivy's bad vibrations. Crane turned his head for a better view and saw vines swaying like agitated cobras. They were definitely picking up their creator's anger.

"I think our run of luck is over—and it must have been your run, since the universe despises me—but we can plan. Counting Nigma and discounting Harley and Black Mask, the numbers are even, if not the power," Crane said hastily. He needed to say something calming before the vines misconstrued him as the source of Ivy's wrath and did her the favor of choking him.

"That's more optimistic," Ivy replied. "But I can do you one better. We also have the power on our side, if we can get to the greenhouse."

"The guns! And Mel!"

"The Joker might be immune to my toxins and pheromones, but I doubt he's immune to digestion or bullets."

The excitement was almost enough to make Crane sit up. It was enough to make him try, and then to fall back, hissing and clutching his shoulder.

"But before we do anything, I've got to do something about your injuries."

As much as it pained her to leave the soft comfort of her bed, Ivy hauled her weary bones up and put her feet on the floor. She tried to walk on the balls of her feet to minimize the noise as she moved toward the door. It was doubtful the men downstairs would care what Ivy was doing, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If Zsasz was astute enough to figure out the trick with the tea, it couldn't be written off that he would ninja his way upstairs to see what why Ivy was skulking.

Ivy cracked the door open and listened. She could hear the television drone and the occasional slam of a cabinet door as the Shark went hungry. As Ivy tiptoed across the hall, she heard a thud that sounded like a heavy object hitting the wall, and then the Joker's maniacal cackle.

"What's so damned funny about okra?"

Ivy froze in the middle of the hall. The outraged voice belonged to White, and the Beavis and Butthead laughter that followed belonged to the Joker. And the thud, that had probably come from her can of okra denting the wall. That pissed Ivy off. Okra wasn't particularly fond of Gotham's cold, wet climate and was one of the few plants Ivy bought organic retail. She did not buy it so her vile houseguests could turn the cans into projectiles!

Grinding her teeth, Ivy finished her trek to the bathroom. She was woefully underprepared to treat Crane's injuries—she was a fugitive from justice, not the ER—but the least she could do was knock down the pain enough for him to think straight.

Ivy raided the medicine cabinet. When Harley had first dragged Crane onto Ivy's doorstep, he had been as sorry a sight as any stray kitten, with his head injuries, spider bites, and sprained ankle courtesy of Mel's over-exuberance. That first round had depleted the strongest of Ivy's medicinal concoctions, as she hadn't expected Crane to suffer a multitude of stab wounds only days later and therefore hadn't been particularly conservative. Now she was left to pool her resources and perform triage with what she had.

Supplies in hand, Ivy exited the bathroom. Though she had every intention of going directly to her room, the noises from downstairs again caught her attention. The Shark must have been circling the kitchen, unfed, because he was still kvetching about Arkham at least having food. Ivy rolled her eyes. It wasn't like there was a total absence of food, just an absence of meat, heavily-processed byproducts, or Red Dye 40. There was still fresh produce, frozen produce, canned produce, and bread. People had certainly survived on less.

"How am I supposed to eat celery with these teeth? Huh, clown, how?"

Ivy never did find out how the Shark ate anything, never mind stringy stalks of celery, with his sharpened teeth, because she had better things to do. She stopped listening to the hungry outrage and continued on to her bedroom. She slipped inside to find things exactly how she'd left them, except for a single curious vine that was now languidly slithering across Crane's stomach.

"Please get if off me," Crane begged, his voice a constrained whisper.

Crane looked like Indiana Jones confronted by a king cobra. Ivy had to hide a smirk. The self-crowned Master of Fear was terrified of a little vine no thicker than his pinky.

"Alright, Jonathan, just remain calm," Ivy said. She approached the bed and, without uttering a word to it, somehow got the vine to reverse-creep back to whence it came. Crane breathed a sigh of relief.

"I was calm," he managed after a few second. "Completely calm."

"Calm enough to keep it from attacking, at least."

Whatever color Zsasz hadn't already bled out of Crane disappeared from his face. This time Ivy couldn't help her smile.

"I was joking. Once again, my plants are not going to kill you. They recognize my pheromones on you, which makes you a friend. That vine wasn't touching you to hurt or threaten you; it just liked your chemical signature. Look." Ivy held out a hand and the vine, along with several of its fellows, undulated toward her.

"Very comforting. Unfortunately, logos still hasn't won over pathos: I did witness plants strangling the Joker not long ago, and I haven't gotten over Mel trying to consume me."

Ivy sat down on the bed. "Maybe I can do something to make you feel more charitable."

Removing Crane's shirt turned out to be more difficult, awkward, and a thousand times more physically painful than trying to unhook a girl's bra for the first time. Taking off a shirt generally involved lifting the arms and then slipping the garment over them, but when the arms in question had just made the acquaintance of a madman's letter-opener, disrobing suddenly felt like it had been invented by Lilith, or perhaps Satan himself. Crane wore a grimace during the whole process, and Ivy winced in sympathy pain.

When the shirt had finally been overcome, Ivy was able to get a clear picture of the extent of Crane's injuries. His arms were a network of cuts and slashes, most of them narrow, shallow, and coagulated. The stab wounds he'd earned for bashing Zsasz in the face with handcuffs, running away, and refusing to apologize were considerably worse.

"I am going to kill that monster the first chance I get!" Ivy snarled. "And then I'm going to kill the bastard who brought him here!"

Ivy's words touched Crane in the way romantic poetry might have touched someone who'd never donned a burlap mask and tucked canisters of toxic chemicals up his sleeves like the diabolical joining of a magician and Ali al-Majid. Nobody in Crane's life had ever gotten angry on his behalf, never mind angry enough to vow death to his enemies. It was actually quite endearing.

Killing monsters and bastards would have to wait, though. First came putting Crane back together again. And then, if that went well, a little nap might be in order.

But make no mistake the bastards' days were numbered. And that number was one.

* * *

Author's Notes:

The show Zsasz is watching is _How It's Made_. The specific episode about knives, socks, and mannequins is real and is from the fifth season.

Panem is the country from _The Hunger Games_.

Lilith is a demon from Hebrew mythology.

Ali al-Majid was a member of Saddam Hussein's cabinet and was nicknamed "Chemical Ali" for his authorization of the use of chemical weapons against Kurds in the 1980s.


	34. The Idiot's Guide to Sitting

Thanks for the reviews, and Merry Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Festivus, Winter Solstice, or any other celebration of your choice.

* * *

If fate had dealt her a better, less weedy hand of cards, Ivy could have made a fine and caring doctor. Her hands were sure and quick and, just as importantly, she knew how to make her patients hold still by the gentle plying of thinly-veiled threats.

Alright, she wasn't exactly pediatrician material, but she'd be a godsend in a prison infirmary.

Not that Crane wanted Ivy to rush off to help the poor beleaguered souls of Blackgate. He was more than happy to have her there to apply her fragrant herbal paste to his impressive collection of slashes, cuts, and general booboos. Her continued vehement mutterings against the cretins responsible for laying him so low were almost as healing as whatever she was rubbing on him.

"I'd like to throw Zsasz in my thistle-patch since he enjoys stabbing people so much," Ivy said, "and then we'd see how he likes it!"

"Is he destined for the thistles before or after you dangle him headfirst above Mel?" Crane asked.

"Before. I'd prefer throwing him in a patch of Porcupine Tomatoes—they're poisonous—but there are enough runaway invasive species ruining this country."

Crane wasn't sure he'd heard correctly, but then figured he had. Ivy did, after all, have a massive, man-eating Venus flytrap named Mel. Knowing her, she'd probably bred something so horrible it would make a Piranha Plant look as friendly as a fern decorating a restaurant table, and then Harley, master of mistaking horrible, lethal things for cute, had named it.

Ivy finished with the last of the shallow cuts that crisscrossed Crane's arms and was left to contend with the much nastier puncture wounds he sported on his shoulder, both front and back. The injury to his back was curious, as it was the only mark of any kind on that side of his body. Ivy doubted Crane wanted to relive his torture session while he was still in pain from the treatment he'd received, so she filed the question away for future inquiry.

"I tried to escape," Crane said, startling Ivy. "Tried, but obviously failed. Zsasz tackled me to the ground and you can see how the rest of that went. I suppose I got off lightly, as he initially had the knife to my throat."

Ivy flinched and her eyes scanned Crane's neck, searching for any mark his near-death experience had left him with. A thin red line beneath his chin was the only indication of how close he'd come to being bled out. Ivy traced a finger along the painless cut and followed its path across the curve of Crane's throat. It was amazing, really, to consider what a difference an inch made. If Zsasz had carved a little deeper, Crane would have spent his last seconds drowning in his own blood.

"I'm sorry," Ivy whispered, withdrawing her finger.

Crane took a moment to consider how bold he'd allow himself to be. Flirting with Ivy was like playing checkers with Czernobog: the reward might be great, but there was also a decent change you'd have your brains bashed in. Since his life could probably be counted in hours anyway, Crane shrugged his shoulders—mentally, at least, as physically shrugging them was out of the question—and went for it like the charming old dog he so obviously wasn't.

"Don't be sorry. That's the first enjoyable touch I've had…I'd like to say ever, but I did enjoy your kisses," Crane said.

That brought a smile to Ivy's face. "It's a shame this isn't an action movie," she said wistfully.

"Such a shame. Because if I was Indiana Jones or James Bond, the easiest way to heal me would be to sleep with me."

"Unfortunately, in this world, the easiest way to heal you is to treat your injuries with medicinal plants and then let you sleep undisturbed," Ivy replied.

In a world where sexual healing was not a cure-all or a substitution for good, old-fashioned sleep, Ivy had no choice but to continue her ministrations. While Ivy worked her magic, Crane wondered what exactly she was smearing on his cuts or pouring into the deeper and nastier of his injuries. Not that he was complaining: whatever crushed berries or squeezed root-juice she was using barely stung on contact and within seconds the plant extracts wrangled his pain down to a level that was ignorable. That was a magnificent change from all the times Crane had crawled home after escaping the Bat's wrath and had been forced to treat his scraped palms and knees with hydrogen peroxide.

Ivy finished with the last of Crane's frontal injuries by taping a gauze pad to his shoulder. It wasn't the best or most intricate first aid ever performed, but Ivy didn't think the Red Cross would come barking at her door anytime soon.

"We're almost finished," Ivy said. "Do you think you can sit up?"

"Ten minutes ago I would have laughed and then wept at the suggestion. Now? I might survive an attempt," Crane replied.

Crane did survive, and managed to prop himself up on his elbows long enough for Ivy to assess the damage done to him. Ivy quickly bandaged the injury and, the moment she was done, Crane lay back down and almost moaned with relief. That wound, bone-deep and the victim of Ivy's well-intentioned shove, had been driving Crane mad with its constant throbbing. Ivy's magnificent plants, while they couldn't silence the pain completely, kicked it around enough for it to learn its place, that place being huddled in the corner, weeping and sucking its thumb.

"Better?" Ivy asked.

"I recant every terrible thing I ever said about your plants. Where's that vine? It may slither upon me until it's content," Crane said.

The vine didn't take Crane up on his kind offer, though it was no doubt pleased with his willingness to turn over a new leaf. Ivy, just as happy with Crane's open-mindedness, transferred her arrangement of healing herbs to a nearby nightstand and then lay down beside her grateful patient.

"Can we afford to do this?" Crane asked. "Rest, I mean?"

"Can we afford _not_ to? I don't know how you slept last night—actually, I can make a pretty good guess—but I got ten minutes of sleep if what I was doing could even be called sleep," Ivy replied.

It was true that Crane and Ivy were both as sleep-deprived as college students the last night before final exams, but sleep made them vulnerable. Though it was not, Crane rationalized, like it really mattered whether they were awake or asleep. If the killers downstairs wanted to clean house, Crane and Ivy could hardly dissuade them no matter what their situation was.

"I don't think we have much to worry about, at least not right now," Ivy said.

"Of course not. We've only got psychotic clowns, gangsters, fish, and knife-wielding maniacs downstairs. That won't interfere with sleep at all."

"First of all, Black Mask's living out in the shed now. Secondly, what I heard while I was in the hall sounded like the prelude to war. They hate each other as much as we hate them. The Joker's driving them insane, and for as seemingly indestructible as he is, I can't see him surviving if Zsasz and the Shark both want him dead. If we're out of sight, we're out of mind. They'll focus on maiming what's in front of them," Ivy said.

It was all very sound logic and comforting to hear, but Crane could not quite convince himself that it would be so simple and painless to get rid of the Joker. The clown was harder to kill than Rasputin and flour beetles combined. The Joker mooned the reaper and then went laughing down the street while the poor skeleton tried to get the image of obscenely pasty buttocks out of his mind. If Batman, the Gotham PD, or any outraged citizen hadn't knocked off the Joker, Crane didn't see even a pair as nasty and capable as Zsasz and White doing it, either.

"And if they can't do it, we'll find a way to do it ourselves. But not until after a nap," Ivy said, correctly interpreting Crane's silence as doubt.

There wasn't much else to discuss. Crane and Ivy needed to sleep, they needed to bide their time, and they needed to stay unobtrusive. There was nothing they could do against the miscreants that had invaded Ivy's home, at least not at that moment.

That didn't keep Crane from worrying. Though he was drained from having been pursued and kidnapped and tortured all night, his mind didn't know how to shut up. It fed him scenarios and statistics and body counts and autopsy photos. It reminded him that he'd wronged both of the men that he was now counting on to kill the Joker for him, and neither of those men were renowned for their saintly forgiveness.

"Jonathan, you're thinking of all the ways this can go wrong, aren't you?" Ivy asked.

"Yes, I am. How did you know?"

"Because you're staring at the ceiling, you haven't blinked since I started watching you, and you're trembling."

Was he? He was. Crane stilled his quaking body and blinked. He didn't feel any positive energy flowing his way. Maybe he scared it off.

"Let's try something," Ivy suggested.

"Tranquilizers?"

"No, Jonathan."

Crane resumed his staring match with the ceiling and waited, not without some apprehension, for Ivy to act. As he waited, Crane heard the sheets rustle and felt Ivy's weight transfer as she moved. Before she touched him, Crane knew she was shifting his way, and had just enough time to tense up.

"Instinct," Crane muttered, suddenly ashamed of his rigidness and hands clenched in preparation of impending violence.

Ivy, careful to avoid Crane's menagerie of injuries, gently raised his arm and slid beneath it. She pressed herself to Crane's side and, as though made not of meat and bone but memory foam, seemed to mold herself perfectly against his contours.

"How are you doing that?" Crane asked, the way a child would ask a magician where the birds and ever-lasting scarf came from.

"It's called 'cuddling,' and almost anyone can do it."

"I can't cuddle! I'm the Master of Fear!"

"You're going to cuddle and you're going to like it."

Crane swallowed thickly and shut his mouth. Master of Fear or not, having a warm female body pressed against him was probably the most pleasant physical experience of his life. It was a much different pleasure than the kind he got from research and seeing people scream and struggle under the effects of his fear gas, but it was just as nice.

The longer Ivy stayed beside him, the more Crane became convinced she wasn't going to come to her senses and find someone far less bony to cuddle. He relaxed, releasing the tension that made lying next to him like lying next to a bundle of sticks. As his fight-or-flight defenses went offline and his mind followed his body into a more peaceful state, Crane's senses began to process the wealth of new sensations that Ivy provided.

Though he'd lain in her bed once before, Crane had somehow failed to grasp how truly magnificent Ivy smelled. Maybe her scent had been lost beneath the overall vegetative and floral smell of her room, but now that she was directly against him, her hair tickling his face, there was no way he could fail to notice. She was like flowers of all stripes, but with an underlying and decidedly more dangerous smell of fecund jungle greenery. It was feminine, though with an undeniable dose of something powerful and deadly.

And speaking of her hair and the way it tickled his cheeks and neck, that was something Crane never thought he'd find any more erotic than the average washing machine. In all his life before, hair getting in his eyes or rubbing against his neck told him one thing: it was time to get a trim because he was starting to look like John Lennon circa _Abbey Road_. Now he had a whole new perspective on the power of a few errant stands.

"I thought I was supposed to sleep," Crane said as Ivy's lips joined her hair in playing joyful havoc with his nerves.

"You are. If there's one thing that's guaranteed to get a man to sleep, it's…"

"_Sex in the City_?"

"If you'd rather watch that—"

"No, please continue with your method."

* * *

Life was not so fresh and ticklish for those unlucky enough to be left downstairs, and nobody's life was as miserable as Nigma's, because nobody else was bound to a chair with duct tape and was beginning to chafe because of said predicament.

The Riddler grunted against the duct tape that kept him silent as he tried to rock the chair across the kitchen. It was the slowest, least-productive means of locomotion Nigma had ever seen. He was already sweating with effort and all he'd managed to do was shift the chair perhaps six inches. SUVs were more energy efficient than this!

Maybe he'd be better off trying to tip the chair over in the hopes of breaking its legs or back, and then slithering free from the shattered remains. That tended to work in movies. Though so did causing a massive fireball by shooting the gas tank of an enemy's car.

Nigma stopped rocking and starting thinking. To tip, or to continue inching his way across the floor in the hopes of…of what, exactly? Suppose he did, sometime in the wee hours of the following morning, make it to Ivy's drawer of knives? How was he, with his duct-taped hands, supposed to reach the drawer, yank it open, fish out a knife, cut the duct tape first from his wrists and then from everywhere else, and somehow accomplish all that quick enough and stealthily enough not to get him murdered? Planning to dig out of prison with a spoon sounded more realistic.

Hoping the movies were right and Ivy liked IKEA but wasn't very good at assembling it, the Riddler started rocking the boat for all he was worth. The chair swung left and then right with increasingly unstable and unsustainable angles. It was only a matter of moments before—

Oh, sweet Lord of Mercy, his spine! What had he just done to his spine?

And his ankle, it was definitely not supposed to bend that way.

That was the absolute last time he trusted any source of information that hadn't been verified through the use of carefully collected and annotated footnotes. If you couldn't trust Hollywood to do its research on the resiliency of household furniture, you couldn't trust it period.

Now in perhaps an even worse and more impaired position, Nigma tried to figure out how to at least get all his weight off his crushed foot. He tried to bite his lip, found the tape didn't allow it, and was forced to just get on with it.

Wiggling like an upended bending robot, the Riddler managed to jerk the chair up high enough to pull his foot out from beneath it. He tentatively moved his ankle and flexed his toes and, while the motions were painful, the ready articulation of his bones and joints probably meant nothing was broken. Not that Nigma looked like he'd be relying on his feet anytime soon. There was no possible way for him to get the chair upright, not without outside help.

"Come on, Eddie, what kind of a genius doesn't even know how to sit in a chair? It isn't that hard. I mean, the Fish even taped you in to help."

The Riddler craned his neck and found the Joker standing behind him with a smug grin on his face.

"Look, I'll show you how it's done." The clown dragged another chair from beside the table and set it in front of the Riddler. He then sat down.

"See? So easy even Killer Croc can do it! And there's even an expert mode."

The Joker then proceeded to display all the variations there were in the art of sitting. There was crossing the legs at the ankle, draping one leg over the other at the knee, leaning the chair backwards, and a wide range of techniques none but the most experienced of sitters dared to try.

Nigma didn't watch any of it. He lay his head down on the floor and stared between the chair's legs at the wall. The wall wasn't very interesting, but at least it wasn't trying to teach him how to introduce a butt to a seat.

The Joker finished his demonstration and hopped down from the chair. He kicked the chair out of the way to clear a space and then crouched down in front of the Riddler. Nigma tried looking through the Joker's legs at the wall, but the clown's legs were together. Nigma had to stare at his shoes instead.

"Did my lesson bore you, Eddie? Or maybe it was just too advanced for an amateur. Maybe lying down is more your speed. You want to learn all the ways you can do that? No, it's no trouble. I'm happy to help."

The Joker waltzed across the floor and came to a stop near the sink. Within easy arm's reach were a number of drawers, and two cabinets. The Joker threw open each drawer and cabinet and then made it rain kitchen utensils.

The Riddler could do nothing to shield himself as bowls, drinking glasses, plates and saucers, boxes of tea, and finally a set of measuring cups struck the floor around him. As the Joker moved away from the cupboards and to the drawers, the precipitation changed to spoons, forks, and butter knives. The spoons were mostly harmless, but one fork did stab the Riddler in the forehead, dangerously close to his eye. He turned his face to the floor so the sightless back of his head would catch any more flying sharp objects.

"What in the hell are you doing in here?" the Great White Shark demanded, standing at the edge of the kitchen and gesturing to the enormous mess that was now spread across most of the floor.

"Teaching Eddie," the Joker replied.

"No! I don't even care, just no! Didn't you hear me? No! What are you doing with that? Do you not realize how hard it is to tie someone up with these hands? I will bite your nose off!"

The Joker, obviously in no fear for his nose, knelt down beside the Riddler and began to saw through the duct tape with a knife Zsasz had somehow forgotten to pilfer. The Shark raged in the background, threatening everything from lawyers to curb-stomping the Joker's face.

The clown knew he'd cut enough tape when the Riddler fell out of the chair and onto the floor. Nigma, unsure of what to do, stayed put and played possum.

"Hmm, sloppy beginning, but nice recovery. That'll earn you a solid 'B'," the Joker said.

"You're…grading…me?" the Riddler asked, pulling the tape off his lips with his newly released hands.

"Yep, and I gotta say, you're showing much more promise in lying down than in sitting. I really think this is your field."

Nigma didn't know whether to count his blessings or start whimpering. Sure, he was out of the chair. Unfortunately, he had been thrown into a class where the Joker was the teacher and the only way to survive would be to pass whatever insane and ridiculous exams the clown through at him.

Suddenly high school didn't seem so bad anymore.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Porcupine Tomatoes, asides from being one of Cracked's "10 Creepy Plants that Shouldn't Exist," are poisonous shrubs with huge spines. The shrub bears fruit that looks vaguely like a tomato.

Piranha Plants are killer Venus-flytrap-like plants from the _Mario_ video game series.

In the utterly fantastic novel _American Gods_, the protagonist Shadow played checkers with the god Czernobog. The wager was that if Shadow won, Czernobog would join Shadow's group, but if Shadow lost, Czernobog would kill him with a sledgehammer.

Rasputin was an advisor to the last Russian czar and was poisoned, shot, and bludgeoned, and when that didn't work, thrown in a river, where he finally drowned.

Flour beetles can survive more radiation than cockroaches.

In the movie _The Shawskank Redemption_, a man tunnels out of prison using a spoon. It's apparently also happened in real life.

In _Futurama_, it was nearly impossible for a bending robot knocked flat on its back to get up.


	35. The Holiest Shark Holiday

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

The first ten minutes of watching the Joker act like a gym teacher from hell and humiliate the Riddler through a series of increasingly moronic exercises were ten minutes well spent. The second ten-minute interval was less satisfying. And by the time the half-hour mark rolled around, Zsasz and White started to feel like a pair of successful businessmen forced to watch a marathon of all the groin-kicking comedy movies they'd loved when they were twelve.

"I can feel my IQ dropping," White complained as the exhausted Riddler crawled across the floor in front of him.

"Look on the bright side: it hasn't got that far to fall," the Joker said, taking a momentary pause from abusing the Riddler.

"Shut your mouth, clown," White said.

"What? Sharks are mindless eating machines. I learned that during Shark Week. You're not going to question the sanctity of Shark Week, are you? Isn't that like shark Christmas?"

White clutched his head. "Just shut up. Please. Shut up and go away."

"Am I being culturally insensitive? Should I say shark Hanukah, shark Kwanzaa, or shark nondenominational winter celebration?"

"Take Shark Week and shove it—"

Zsasz and the Riddler knew a good distraction when they saw one, and knew how to exploit such a fortuitous boon. While White and the Joker argued over Shark Week, and White waved one of his few remaining fingers in the Joker's face, both the puzzler and the serial killer made discreet exits. At least Zsasz had the luxury of making his escape on two feet; the Riddler, too terrified of catching the Joker's eye and being subjected to more nightmarish treatment, slithered away on his stomach.

While the Riddler carefully crept his way toward the front door and freedom, Zsasz decided to take a little walk upstairs. Since any hope of watching TV or just sitting alone and undisturbed on the couch was as misplaced as hope in a politician to keep his promises, Zsasz needed something else to entertain him. His favorite diversion was more-or-less denied to him at that moment, so he looked for anything that could keep him occupied before he found himself sticking a knife into someone, anyone, regardless of the consequences.

His legs carried him from the stairs to the rooms that occupied the upstairs. His first stop, purely by chance, happened to be Harley's room. The door creaked as Zsasz pushed it open, but Harley was still deep in blissful chamomile-induced dreams and didn't stir.

Which was probably for the best, considering what had just wandered into her room, how loudly she would have shrieked when she saw him, and how dead she'd have been had he stabbed her to shut her up.

Ignoring the snoring blonde, Zsasz poked around the room. He looked in the closet and found clothes he wasn't particularly keen to try on. Harley's dresser likewise failed to contribute anything to Zsasz's meager wardrobe.

On the verge of giving up and going elsewhere, Zsasz saw the corner of a book protruding from beneath the bed. He approached the novel and picked it up. The cover design was Spartan, with a black background and a golden bird of some sort. In Zsasz's opinion, the bird looked like a kingfisher.

"_The Hunger Games_," Zsasz read aloud. The title was familiar, though Zsasz had only the vaguest notions of what the book was about. Arkham's library wasn't exactly on par with the Library of Congress, and what beat-to-shit, coverless, and/or partially burned or eaten books it did stock rarely found their way into Zsasz's hands.

Zsasz read the summary on the back of the book and decided reading the book would probably be more entertaining than tearing out its page and making origami. All he needed now was a quiet place to read it. He looked around the room. Nobody was screaming about Shark Week, and Harley barely snored. Perfect. Zsasz shut the door to block out the residual voices coming from downstairs and seated himself in the corner.

While Zsasz snuggled up in his private library, the Riddler inched his way outside. Once he was out of the house, he stopped moving like a python and started using his legs. He got to his feet, scanned his surroundings like any cautious herbivore would, and, like many an unfortunate ungulate, was promptly taken down by predators.

Mere feet from the door, Nigma was beset upon by Bud and Lou. The hyenas had been entertaining themselves with exhuming everything in Ivy's flowerbed, but because plants didn't wiggle, scream, or curl into a ball, Nigma was a much better playmate.

The Riddler's escape ended with him scrambling on his hands and knees back inside, and slamming the door on Lou's snout. The hyena yelped and wisely went back to playing with something that lacked the limbs necessary to close a door.

Nigma collapsed flat on his back and estimated his heart would be failing in the next thirty seconds because there was no way the organ could possibly withstand so much strain without total collapse and possible explosion. Ditto his lungs. Yep, both the cardiac and pulmonary systems, pushed beyond their limits, were headed for imminent disaster like the cataclysmic meeting of a big-rig and a…

Maybe he'd actually been a little premature. If you had time to think about and visualize your impending organ failure as a multi-car pileup on the highway, said organ failure probably wasn't as dire a threat as you initially imagined.

"The poise, the technique, the gallons of sweat! A-plus! You pass! Hell, you graduate with honors!"

The Joker was, a moment later, on the Riddler, showering him with exuberance no teacher who wanted to keep his job would dare demonstrate. Nigma, hardly able to stay on his feet, was swept along as the Joker, one overly-friendly armed wrapped around the Riddler's waist, waltzed his reluctant student around the room.

"Did you ever think about auditioning for _Dancing with the Stars_?" White asked as he watched the spectacle the Joker was making.

The Joker froze in mid-step and gazed into the eyes of his horrified dance partner. "We should! At least _I_ should! I don't know about you, Eddie. Maybe they can pair you up with Nancy Grace."

"I don't want to be paired up with Nancy Grace! I- I don't want to be on _Dancing with the Stars_ at all!" the Riddler exclaimed.

"You do have two left feet," the Joker said.

Before the Riddler could respond, the Joker spun him away like the partner in an especially passionate tango. Nigma, sent twirling like Cobb's totem, was only stopped when the back of his knees struck the couch. He fell backward onto the sofa's cushioned seat and wondered if curling into the fetal position and crying were acceptable reactions to the idiotic insanity he'd been through.

"I never thought you had it in! When you first enrolled in my class, not even duct tape could hold you in place. Now here you are, sitting all by yourself. I don't even have to hold your hand. I'm just so proud." The Joker covered his eyes and began the most overdramatic weeping to be seen and heard outside a teenage girl's bedroom.

"Thanks for the ride, but I'm getting off the short bus," White said.

"What? Why? I was an excellent bus driver, and all the kids loved me. Most of them survived," the Joker said, wrangling his emotions and revealing completely dry eyes.

Terrified that he would next find himself thrust into a driving class with the Joker—the worst driving class not to feature a cartoon sponge—Nigma dragged himself off the couch and tried to slink away unnoticed. His green jacket might have aided his escape if he'd been in the jungles of Vietnam, but against the light living room walls the jacket acted like a road-worker's reflective vest.

"Where're you going, Eddie?" the clown asked.

The Riddler's brain stalled. He kicked it. It belched out a single word.

"Bathroom."

The Joker went still and took on the air of a scientist contemplating an advanced physics problem. Actual concentration was the last thing Nigma ever expected to get from the Joker, especially in response to the word "bathroom".

Before Nigma could torture himself by trying to decipher the Joker's actions, the clown said, "I was wondering about that. Toilet paper is made of plants, right? So what does Ivy do?"

"Use leaves?" White offered.

"But that's still plants."

"Uh-huh. Well, like I said earlier, I'm off the short bus and I'm not speculating any more about this crap. You want to find out what goes on in Ivy's bathroom, that's your prerogative. I think I'm going to take a nap. Don't bother looking for me." Having said that, White walked from the living room.

"This is a mystery for the ages! Eddie, I've got a mission for you," the Joker said. "Answer the eternal riddle of Ivy's bathroom, and then report back to me."

Nigma managed to find the _cojones_ to offer the Joker a weak little salute before he hurried off. The previous day's tour of the house was so fresh in the Riddler's mind the paint wasn't even dry yet, and he made his way straight upstairs and to the bathroom. Then he kept going down the hall.

Hoping it wouldn't end with him being treated like one of Henry VIII's wives, Nigma opened the door to Ivy's room just a crack. Though the view wasn't great, Nigma was unwilling to widen the gap and give anything mean and green the chance to thrust out, snare him, and drag him howling to his doom. Squinting through his peephole into the gloom of Ivy's room, Nigma could make out the shape of a bed, plus a ridiculous number of vines, creepers, and general vegetation. At least most of said plants weren't moving. Much…

"Ivy," Nigma whispered.

When no one responded—including the uncountable plants—the Riddler decided to push his luck. He eased the door open a few inches farther and hoped his bravery earned him big bucks and no whammies.

"Ivy," Nigma whispered, this time louder.

A few of the vines twitched and the amorphous sheet-clad shape on the bed shifted. The Riddler realized what was happening: Ivy was asleep, and her plants likewise were dormant. Waking her up probably meant waking them up as well.

Now aware of the connection, and the problems it was sure to cause, Nigma had even less desire to enter Ivy's room. He decided to wake her up from afar. Leaving the door ajar, Nigma went in search of things to chuck.

Ironically, in locating the perfect throwing object—something soft and without sharp edges, but heavy enough to fly at least ten feet—Nigma ended up answering the question the Joker had been dying to know. His made-from-100%-recycled-paper solution in hand, Nigma exited the bathroom and returned to the hall outside Ivy's room.

The Riddler opened the door as wide as he dared at estimated the distance from himself to the lump on the bed. He then drew back his hand and pitched the roll of toilet paper into the room. The roll landed in the center of the bed, bounced off of the person sleeping there, and then rolled off the bedside and out of sight. Nigma held the door knob, and his breath, and prepared to slam the door and run if the plants turned aggressive.

Two people emerged from the tangled bed sheets. Neither of them looked particularly alert, at least not until they saw the Riddler standing in the doorway with an astounded expression on his face. Then, at least from one of them, there was a mad scramble for decency.

Acting as though his lover's husband had just burst into the room, Remington in hand, Crane tried desperately to cover himself. He gathered the surrounding sheets up in great bunches and pulled them up to his chin. In his haste, he also assimilated Ivy's top into the mountain of bedding. Not that she seemed to care in the least.

"What do you need, Nigma?" Ivy asked in a perfectly normal tone that did not suggest she was exposed from the waist up.

"Nothing," the Riddler peeped.

"You didn't wake us up for nothing. And stop staring! This is the natural state of the female body!" Ivy snapped.

The Riddler couldn't make his eyes behave, so he forced himself to turn around and face the wall. "I, well, you see, yes."

"Okay. How about you try that again? What was so important you couldn't knock first?" Ivy asked.

"The Joker's alone. White left—I deduce he's sleeping in the van—and Zsasz is somewhere," Nigma explained. "If we present a united front now, our chances are optimal."

Ivy wrested her shirt from Crane's stranglehold and slipped it on. "Alright, that's great news. Let's kill the clown."

"How?" Crane asked, only his head above the mound of sheets he'd horded about himself like Smaug's golden treasure.

"If there's nobody guarding the door downstairs, one of us could slip outside, get to the greenhouse, and retrieve the guns. Or," Ivy motioned to the greenery in her room, "we could choke the life out of him with one of my beauties."

"Or find something sufficiently heavy and bludgeon him to death," Crane offered.

"Or—" Nigma's contribution was cut off by the Joker's hand on his shoulder.

"Eddie, what happened? Did you get lost? I'm going to have to put you on a leash like a little redneck toddler!"

The Riddler nearly jumped out of his skin. Since biology meant he couldn't leave his epidermis behind, he had to settle for getting six inches off the ground and emitting a noise like a dying guinea pig. The Joker giggled at the shrill squeal but kept his fingers firmly embedded in the scant meat of the Riddler's shoulder.

"I was—" The Riddler's excuse was cut off as the Joker looped a shoelace around his neck and proceeded to garrote him.

"See? I told you that I'd put you on a leash. We can't have you wandering off. You might get hurt, and I'd hate to be responsible for that," the Joker said as he pulled the ends of the shoelace tighter.

Nigma clawed at the shoestring. It was pressed too deeply into his throat to get so much as a pinky underneath it. He collapsed to his knees and tried grappling with the Joker instead. That might have worked if he still had the coordination for it. His oxygen deprived body was, somehow, even a poorer fighter than usual.

"It isn't so much fun when it's happening to someone like Eddie, is it? When _I'm_ being strangled, it's _hilarious_," the Joker taunted.

"You're damn right it is."

The Joker looked up just in time to see Ivy's kung-fu foot launch toward his nose. The clown had clear and painful memories of having his face rearranged by Batman's fists of justice, and wasn't looking forward to a repeat performance. He managed to duck his head so Ivy's toes met Sheetrock instead of schnozzle.

Ivy made an impressive dent in the wall, and in retaliation the wall compressed her toes to the point she was sure she'd suffered compound fractures in every bone in her foot. Bolts of agony shooting up into her tibia, Ivy toppled over and clutched at her howling appendage.

Nigma and Ivy having been incapacitated, it all came down to Crane. His first instinct was to pull the sheets over his head and hope the Joker didn't notice him there. His second instinct, no more noble but at least a bit smarter, suggested he try slamming and locking the door, thus keeping the psychopathic clown outside. His third idea, no longer an instinct, more of a learned stupidity, suggested he rise up and defend Ivy, and maybe Nigma, if the wormy little bastard was lucky.

Knowing he'd hate himself for it, Crane threw off the covers and jumped from the bed. Even quicker than anticipated, the self-loathing kicked in, because the moment Crane's feet hit the ground, he realized how vastly he'd overestimated the healing power of a one-hour nap. Jarred by the landing, the nastier of his injuries began to bark with vigor, and Crane suspected his arms would be nearly useless in the tussle that was bound to ensue.

The Joker turned from his two disabled opponents and faced Crane. The clown eyed him up and down and was so amused by what he saw that the force of his laughter left him doubled over. Crane took that to be a bad sign.

"Really, Johnny, _really_? I'm supposed to fight you? I don't think I can. I mean, I've got a reputation to uphold! What would the criminal underbelly think of me? I'd be a laughingstock, and not the good kind, either," the Joker said.

Crane blustered, "I'm the Scarecrow, damn it, not some fragile old woman!"

The Joker shook his head. "And that's the problem. Old ladies are hilarious. What's funnier than 'help, I've fallen and I can't get up'? Then they wave their canes and varicose veins around. It's a gas. But you? I could break both your hips and hardly get a chuckle for my efforts."

"If I'm so unspeakably boring, then why did you have me tortured?!" Crane demanded.

"You weren't so boring last night. At least then you could move, and you did get off a zinger or two against Zsasz. Now you're like a broken yoyo. You go to the bottom of the string, but you don't come back up. Who wants to play with that?"

"I do!"

Ivy, the freshly crowned queen of off-camera one-liners, tried her sneak attack a second time. With the Riddler to prop her up on the side of her injured foot, Ivy launched another kick at the Joker. This time she aimed for a bigger target: the clown's purple-clothed posterior.

Even with her gimp foot, Ivy's second attempt was a rousing success. The Joker was propelled forward into the jungle of Ivy's room. Vines, already riled up by their creator's pain, wasted no time coiling around any part of the clown they could snare.

"Get out of there, Jonathan!" Ivy shouted.

Crane didn't need to be told twice—he felt stupid enough having to be told once—and he got his long legs in gear. Ignoring best he could the pain hustling brought on, he slipped past the struggling Joker and, with a last sadistic look back, slammed the door.

"Now what?" Crane asked.

The Riddler opened his mouth—no doubt to say something condescending about how narrow Crane's field of perception was, or how a child could plainly see the next step—and lo and behold! Nothing! Not a peep, a whimper, a single bloody syllable. Glorious silence from the smart-mouth on legs.

Crane wished he'd thought to strangle the Riddler earlier. This was infinitely better. Hell, if Nigma maintained his silence, maybe Crane would forgive him for that whole Taser episode.

And maybe America would stop loving bacon.

"We don't take any chances. I want these bastards out of my house, and the only sure way to do that is at gunpoint. And, in the Joker's case, maybe with a mop," Ivy said.

From the room behind them, there came a terrible thumping sound, like something full of bones and meat being slammed against the wall, then the floor, then the wall again.

"Probably going to need a squeegee, too," Ivy added.

* * *

Author's Notes:

In the comic _Streets of Gotham_, Zsasz makes children fight to the death. I think a certain best-seller gave him the idea.

The Library of Congress has over 32 million books.

Nancy Grace was on season 13 of _Dancing with the Stars_.

In the movie _Inception_, Cobb's totem was a top that would, in a dream, never stop spinning.

SpongeBob has failed his driving test dozens of times, and has during those tests caused bodily injury to his teacher, pedestrians, and the police force.

Henry VIII had six wives. Two lost their heads and one died of complications from childbirth.

"No whammies, big bucks!" was a cry often heard on the game show _Press Your Luck_, which was recently resurrected and renamed _Whammy_. In the show, if a contestant got a "whammy" they lost all their money.

Smaug is the dragon from _The Hobbit_, who has a predilection for dwarf gold.


	36. Gratuitous Nudity

Thanks for the reviews!

Guest: Making this an overly feminist fic was not at all my intention, though I respect your opinion.

* * *

With Nigma and Ivy moving like participants in a three-legged race, Crane was the only one mobile enough to scout ahead. Not that there was much that needed scouting. The hall was empty, the stairs were empty, and as far as Crane could see, the living room and the path to the front door were empty as well.

"Can you manage the stairs?" Crane asked as Ivy and Nigma limped up to meet him.

Ivy eyed the stares with the distrustful look usually reserved for used-car salesmen and politicians from the opposing camp. Never taking her eyes off the stairs, Ivy tried putting weight on her injured foot. It bore enough weight to suggest Ivy hadn't broken her toes, only severely bruised them, but not enough weight to allow Ivy to safely navigate the stairs under only her own power.

Good thing she had her mute helper.

Crane descended the stairs first and then waited for Ivy and Nigma to make the treacherous journey. The Riddler stood on hand, ready to lend support should Ivy's leg buckle or her gritty determination fail to overcome physical damage. Ivy was smart enough to forgo her pride and accept the Riddler's offered help about halfway down the stairs.

Moving like a pair of fragile seniors in a commercial for a stair lift or walk-in safety tub, Ivy and Nigma made it to the bottom of the steps without either of them falling and being unable to get up. Proving the universe didn't give a shit how much effort it had taken everyone to tackle the stairs and remain alive, a most terrible and shrill screaming came from upstairs.

"You've got to be kidding me," Ivy said. A few seconds later, once she had time to process the screaming and her comment, she added with much greater urgency, "That's Harley!"

"Get to the greenhouse and I'll meet you there," Crane said.

"Are you sure?" Ivy asked.

"No, I'm not sure! In fact, I've rarely been so unsure! So go before my mind returns from vacation and I leave Harley to whatever it is that's making her shriek."

Ivy limped toward the front door and the Riddler headed after her. Just before he left, though, Nigma placed a hand on Crane's shoulder and then gave him a thumbs-up. Crane was fairly certain the Riddler hoped he died, encouraging gestures be damned.

Crane faced the slope of the stairs with the grimness of a mountaineer surveying Everest from a base camp. What was wrong with him? Why did he care what happened to Harley? How did he go from being the Master of Fear to Dudley Do-Right? He was not cut out for rescuing damsels in distress. He wasn't even cut out for rescuing himself most of the time.

By the time Crane had climbed the stairs, Harley's wordless screams had evolved and grown syllables. She was obviously yelling at someone, and the list of possible suspects was very short, unless some new intruder had climbed in a window while everyone's back was turned. Dreading what he was going to find, Crane opened the door to Harley's room.

Harley was standing atop her bed and was holding an unplugged lamp above her head. Crane looked in the direction Harley was facing and saw who she intended to throw the lamp at. Crane only wished Harley had something heavier to toss.

"Harley," Crane called. "What's happening?"

The blonde lowered the lamp, tucked it beneath her armpit incase she needed to throw it after all, and pointed a finger at the confounded man sitting in the corner.

"That creepo jerk was watchin' me sleep!" she shrieked. "And he was touchin' my stuff and doin' who knows what else!"

Zsasz had his hands raised, as though he expected to be arrested. "I was only reading," he said, and tilted his head towards the book he'd placed on the floor next to him.

"Yeah, that book was under my bed! That means he was standing' right there and he coulda killed me!" Harley wailed.

"But I didn't," Zsasz pointed out.

"I bet you thought about it!"

Zsasz shrugged, noncommittal. Everyone in Gotham, if not in the world, knew him well enough to call him out if he'd claimed no thoughts of murder had passed through his mind.

"Harley, don't waste your breath on him. Get off the bed and come with me," Crane said.

Harley deposited the lamp back on its nightstand, and then hopped off the bed. Before she traipsed over to Crane, she took the time to stick her tongue out at Zsasz and blow a series of raspberries. When Crane dared to hope Harley was done acting like a defiant kindergartener, she puffed out her cheeks like a blowfish and made a second stream of rude noises.

"I think he's got the message," Crane mumbled.

Harley's tongue darted back inside like the offspring of a mouthbrooder. She followed Crane out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Crane and his blonde tail had nearly made it to the stairs when something a thousand times more off-putting and mind-scarring than finding Zsasz lurking in the corner burst from Ivy's room. It was the Joker, severed vines still wrapped around his ankles, and, with the exception of a sock, not a stitch of clothing to be seen anywhere.

The two parties stared across the hall at each other in perfect silence.

"Uh, Puddin', you're sorta…naked," Harley said once a little of the shock had worn off.

Reacting to Harley's voice, the Joker staggered like a zombie toward the terrified pair, one arm outstretched to add to the impression Leon S. Kennedy needed to come and deal with him. Since Kennedy wasn't available—and Zsasz wasn't interested in fending off _that_ kind of zombie—Crane and Harley could only stand aghast as the groaning, shuffling clown shambled for them.

The Joker collapsed, crawled to Harley's feet and reached up to paw at the hem of her shirt. "It was horrible, Harley! Even more horrible than that dream I had where McDonald's went vegetarian! There were plants everywhere, and they- they- _touched me_! I was molested by plants! Shame! Woe is me! I think one of them was poison oak! Does this look like a poison oak rash to you, Johnny?"

If Crane had been in possession of a bomb, he would have detonated it at that moment. Being blown to smithereens was certainly no worse than being asked to diagnose the Joker's below-the-belt dermatological problem.

"I don't know, I don't care, and why won't you just _die_?!" Crane screamed.

"Come on, Professor, don't say things like that," Harley said.

"Yeah, Johnny, if I die, I'll just come back as a ghost anyway," the Joker added.

"Go to Hell! I don't care if it exists or not! Go there!"

"Woo! Woo! I'm going to haunt you! Boo! Naked ghost!" The Joker reached a warm and living but spectrally-pale arm at Crane and Crane lost whatever feeble hold he had on his self-control.

"Haunt me then! But first I'll have the pleasure of knowing I rid the world of your despicable hide!"

"How are you going to kill me, Mop-man? Stab me with your protruding hip bones? There are supermodels who eat more than you," the Joker said.

"We'll see who has the last laugh," Crane replied.

"Go eat a sandwich. And make me one while you're at it! Extra mayo and nothing green."

Crane stomped down the stairs, leaving Harley alone with her exceptionally degenerate boyfriend.

"He isn't going to make me a sandwich, is he?" the Joker asked.

"No Puddin', he isn't. But maybe we can get you some pants," Harley responded.

The Joker looked down and admired the view. "Nah, I like being naked. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. I'll be able to commit crimes with impunity. Who's going to touch me now? Batman? He wishes."

Harley shrugged. "Okay, Mister J, whatever you say. But don't come cryin' to me when you get shrinkage."

Crane made it to the front door unmolested, which, considering the seething state the erstwhile professor was in, saved anyone he might have met a huge pile of grief and self-esteem-destroying verbal abuse. Too furious to do more than give a cursory glance left and right before venturing outside, Crane stepped onto the open expanse of Ivy's lawn. As he headed for the greenhouse, he waited for Bud and Lou to approach him so he could drive them away with a withering glare. He was almost disappointed when the two hyenas didn't show.

By the time he was halfway across the lawn, the total absence of any faces, friend, foe, or furry and snouted, began to turn Crane into a paranoiac. Ivy should have called out to him to let him know she'd made it to the greenhouse, and Bud and Lou were always looking for some new victim to lick and jump upon. So where the hell was everyone?

A gunshot provided a clue you didn't need to be Philip Marlowe to interpret. Crane threw himself to the ground, instinctively covered his head, and wished he had a trench he could duck into. Even on his stomach, Crane was easily the largest target in the green no-man's-land. To make matters more dire, Crane was equidistant from the protection of the house and greenhouse, and wasn't even sure where the shot had originated from. He didn't know whether advancing or retreating would put him in the line of fire, or even if he was the intended target. Maybe the shooter was aiming for someone else.

And maybe not. Crane swallowed hard. Why did people keep trying to kill him?

No, karma was not an acceptable answer.

Another gunshot rang out, and Crane, already in the closest thing to defilade the yard offered, was able to pay more attention this time, as he wasn't scrambling for nonexistent cover.

The gunshot was loud, but not loud enough to make Crane's ears ring. That meant the shooter was some distance away. The sound was also coming from the direction of the greenhouse, which meant at least the Joker hadn't found a stray weapon. Beyond that, Crane couldn't tell much else.

Deciding he needed to do something beside lie there and hope he wasn't in the crosshairs, Crane crept forward on his elbows, like a soldier crawling under barbed wire. That form of locomotion carried him maybe three feet before his injuries reminded him of their presence.

There was no way Crane would be able to crawl any distance, never mind to safety, without being overcome by pain and likely reopening all the cuts Ivy had so carefully bandaged. Having eliminated that option, he considered what remained: staying put and hoping he was mistaken for a freakishly large and skinny beetle, or using his undamaged limbs to scurry for the greenhouse and its weapons cache.

Crane mulled it over and decided he was just a little sick and tired of being the victim. He'd been choked, kidnapped, stabbed, kidnapped again, shot at and, perhaps worst of all, had seen the Joker naked. It was his turn to spread the misery around.

And, perhaps less optimistically, if he was going to be shot, he'd prefer it be while he was standing and at least making an attempt, not hiding like a snake in the grass.

That didn't mean Crane was just going to run off like every idiot blonde in every idiot horror movie ever made. Before he ran for it, he was going to scope out where he was running to. Still hugging the ground, Crane squinted at the greenhouse and the shed beside it. He thought he saw a shadow reflected on the left wall of the greenhouse, but he was too far away to determine if the shadow even existed or was a trick of the light, and if it did, what its source was.

Mysterious shadows that even the cast of _Finding Bigfoot_ would be skeptical of were not sufficient reason to stay grounded. Crane took a deep breath, looked left and right as though he was about to cross the street, and then pushed himself to his feet.

Crane might have been made primarily of harsh angles and long limbs, but that served him now. He wasn't particularly strong, but being built like a whippet meant he could run like one.

The times Crane had run if not for his life, at least for his safety, had to number in the thousands. This was just one more occasion to feel his legs piston and his pulse race as disaster closed in on him.

It wasn't until he was seconds from the greenhouse that Crane's brain brought up a very important detail: how was he supposed to open the door? Super-genius that he was, he couldn't remember how the door opened, probably because last time he'd been in the greenhouse, he'd nearly been eaten and had suffered horrible mental trauma because of Mel's hungry vines. If it swung inward, that wasn't much of an issue. Crane could use his uninjured shoulder to push the door open. If it opened outward, he was going to run face-first into the glass and probably knock himself out.

Praise random chance, the door swung inward! Crane had just enough time to lower his shoulder into position before he and the door collided. The door, doing what most doors had been designed to do since the beginning of time, admitted entrance.

All the speed that Crane had built up tearing across the lawn like a cheetah became his main concern once he cleared the threshold. There was very little space between the door and the first creepers of Ivy's thriving arboretum. Before Crane could fully apply the brakes, he found himself tripped by vines and sprawled out in a patch of unidentifiable, leafy foliage.

The plants took much more offense to being bulldozed than plants usually took to anything. The greenhouse came to life, vines, tendrils, leaves, and other green parts writhing and twisting around Crane. He immediately stilled and hoped Ivy had left enough traces of her pheromones on him for the plants to pardon the intrusion and not treat him like Broderick Bode.

After a few seconds of inspection, the plants decided they would forgive Crane for breaking into their home, stepping on them, and disrupting their peaceful photosynthesis. Crane let out the breath he'd been holding as the vines retreated and the leaves stopped shaking. Now all he had to worry about was Ivy finding out he'd mashed her ferns. And speaking of Ivy, where had she and Nigma gotten to?

Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping. Crane somehow doubted he'd been visited by a raven, though. He concentrated for a moment and listened hard. He realized the tapping was coming from his left, and thus looked that way.

To his surprise, he found the source of the tapping was Edward Nigma. The Riddler, even though Crane was staring straight at him, continued to peck away at the glass wall of the greenhouse. Crane raised an eyebrow. Now that he had lost his voice, the Riddler had turned into Hector Salamanca. Crane couldn't say he preferred mindlessly tapping Riddler over mindlessly chattering Riddler.

"What? I see you! Stop!" Crane shouted. He began to rise from the floor, though halted when the Riddler started waving frantically and pointing at Crane.

"You're useless," Crane said.

Nigma stopped flapping and returned to knocking on the glass with renewed urgency. Crane began to feel like an animal in a zoo, hounded all days by idiot children who couldn't keep their grubby mitts off the Plexiglas.

"What are you trying to tell me? Is that… Is that Morse code? I don't bloody know Morse code off the top of my head!"

The Riddler rolled his eyes, disgusted, as though Crane had just told him he didn't know basic addition and subtraction. Since advanced communication obviously wasn't going to work, Nigma turned to charades. He raised his thumb and extended his index finger, making a symbol that would have gotten him expelled from any school in the nation.

"A gun? Who has a gun?"

Nigma pointed at Crane.

"No, you imbecile, I don't have a gun."

The Riddler made another hand gesture, this one equally likely to be frowned upon by school administrators.

"That's it, I am going to end you."

Crane rose and the Riddler had another conniption fit. This was getting ridiculous. No, scratch that, it had been ridiculous from the beginning. Now it was infuriating.

The Riddler hit the dirt. That was a rather odd reaction, Crane thought, though Nigma hadn't been all there since losing his voice. Maybe grief had driven him into a new, stupider form of insanity.

Clarity arrived a moment later, though Crane would have much preferred to keep thinking the Riddler's feeble grip on sanity had slipped a little more. Instead, Crane's ignorance was cleared by the boom of a third gunshot, and the accompanying burn of a bullet grazing his forehead and nearly erasing an eyebrow.

Crane fell back into the plants' camouflaging embrace. Careful to keep his arm below the level of the tallest greenery, Crane pressed a hand to head. It came away wet, and unless he'd started bleeding some exotic color, Crane knew he'd find his palm smeared red. Not that he really wanted to see anymore of his blood on the outside, having, just the night before, seen plenty of it. Without looking, Crane wiped his hand on his pants.

As he lay there out of sight like a little bunny in a field, Crane tried to figure out who was shooting and what his next course of action was going to be. In all the gunplay over the past hours, the various weapons brought to Ivy's house had been treated like the ball in a street hustler's shell game. Last Crane had seen, though, the Shark had come up the winner, snagging both the Joker's and Black Mask's guns.

This didn't seem like the Shark's work, though. Crane, unless he was getting entirely the wrong vibe, had thought the Shark was miserable and just wanted to leave. He didn't have a score to settle or a body count to rack up; he had a criminal empire that missed him. There was no need for him to hunt down and kill everyone.

So it probably wasn't the Shark. Crane did the math. The Joker, Harley, and Zsasz were inside and obviously not responsible. White didn't fit the bill. Who did that leave?

Black Mask.

Great.

It wasn't like he was a lethal sadist who had already tried to beat the Riddler to death and had been drugged, duct-taped, and locked in a shed or anything.

Crane sighed and wiped a trickle of blood from his forehead.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Dudley Do-Right is a cartoon Canadian Mountie.

A mouthbrooder is a type of fish—and there are several—that raises its young in its mouth.

Leon S. Kennedy kills zombies in the _Resident Evil_ series.

Philip Marlowe is a detective created by Raymond Chandler.

The cast of _Finding Bigfoot_ has used a wide variety of techniques, including bacon bait, in an attempt to find Bigfoot. They've yet to be successful…

Broderick Bode was a _Harry Potter_ character strangled by Devil's Snare, a magical plant.

"Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping" is from the opening stanza of "The Raven."

Hector Salamanca was a character on _Breaking Bad_ who communicated by ringing a bell.


	37. Lock and Load

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Nestled in the leaves, with blood running across his forehead and into his hair, Crane was finding it hard to feel or do anything. When the entire universe was against you, and maniacs kept trying to kill you, eventually even the strongest mind began to wonder what the point of further resistance was. How did you, chronically unlucky assemblage of bones, find the strength to go on in the face of such adversity?

If you were Crane, you asked for a rain check on that question. Then you went back to your existential crisis and you stayed there.

At least until you heard the leaves rustling behind you.

Then you stopped thinking about yourself in the second person and realized life still had some shred of meaning, as death by angry plants was a terrifying specter.

The rustling approached and Crane's mind drew up a list of possible suspects, each one more terrible and toothy than the last: fanged geraniums, killer cacti, ferns from the darkest corners of Man's imagination, HP Lovecraft's sentient, bloodthirsty bougainvillea…

This was getting ridiculous. Crane stopped thinking about all the fantastical flora that might be, but chances are wasn't, coming to feast on his scant flesh, and started trying to do something about it. He didn't have much room to move unless he wanted to fall within Black Mask's sights, so keeping his body pressed as closely to the ground as possible, Crane turned himself around so he'd be able to face the rustling menace head on.

Now that he was at least going to see death coming before it jumped all over him and drained his fluids or sprayed him with toxic spores, Crane began to look for something that might forestall said imminent attack. He was surrounded by plants, and had Ivy been in his place, she no doubt could have engineered an unstoppable army of leafy vengeance with little more than a thought. Crane had no power to command plants; if anything, the plants held all the power in the relationship. Unable to communicate with the plants, Crane looked for something inorganic, like a rock or a shovel, that he didn't need to talk to before he bashed someone with it. His fingers found a smooth, round pebble, which might have made eye-thwacking ammunition if Crane happened to have a slingshot handy. Which he didn't.

Weaponless, bloody, terrified, Crane still somehow managed to dredge up enough self-respect to glare at his thus-far-unseen attacker. He was still giving the greenery the evil eye when, much to his amazement, a hand emerged from the undergrowth. The unexpected appearance of the hand transformed the fearless glare into wide-eyed surprise, so that when the rest of Ivy crawled out of the forest, Crane was staring like an owl.

"Hello, Jonathan," Ivy greeted.

Crane couldn't remember how to speak for a few seconds. Then, after a failed attempt and a burble of noise, he managed to reply, "Hi."

"How did you get in here?" Crane asked once his vocal cords remembered what their purpose was.

"There's a back door I don't use because it's so overgrown and I'd hate to disturb my beauties. But this was an emergency," Ivy responded.

"Oh, a back door. That's excellent. I thought you were a monster coming to kill me in a grotesque fashion," Crane said.

"I think that description works better for the Joker."

"Or Black Mask. He's rather unhappy with us, and I can't imagine why," Crane said.

Ivy snorted. "It certainly isn't my fault."

Crane managed a grin. Ivy was definitely worth staying alive for.

And speaking of Ivy and staying alive, Ivy almost didn't. Positioned on her hands and knees she wasn't a huge target, but she was exposed above the concealment the plants offered Crane. Black Mask was a crack shot, and even off his game due to drugged tea, he still was a clay pigeon's or an innocent Gothamite's worst nightmare. It was only Nigma's frantic banging on the glass—which Ivy interpreted as a warning, not a friendly attempt to say hi—that saved Ivy's skin. She hit the dirt, but the dirt was covered by Crane's body. So she hit him, instead.

Crane grunted as Ivy fell atop him. Before either he or she could begin to adjust elbows or anything of that nature, a gunshot scared them into stillness.

"We need to get the guns," Ivy said.

"I'd love to, but you seem to be in a better position," Crane replied.

Ivy nodded and, keeping low and out of sight, she backed off of Crane and retreated into the dense greenery. She maneuvered through the indoor jungle with remarkable ease, as the vines, shoots, and leaves cleared out of her way to provide safe passage. Without Ivy's special relationship to all things plant, the journey would have required at least a machete, if not a chainsaw, herd of goats, and maybe even a flamethrower or two.

Among all the animated plants that thrived in Ivy's greenhouse, Mel was the grand centerpiece. And not just because he was the largest. Or because he had the biggest teeth. Or because his forerunners had nearly eaten Batman on numerous occasions. It was because he was just so damned cool.

Plus all that stuff about being enormous, toothy, and coming from a long, proud line of superhero-devouring monsters.

Ivy crawled up to awesome, carnivorous Mel without a fear in the world. She gave one of Mel's exploratory vines a quick pat, and the plant remained perfectly calm as Ivy searched through the leaves at the flower's base. Within a minute Ivy located the guns she and Crane had hid earlier.

The leaves in front of Crane began to rustle again, though this time he rationalized that it was only Ivy returning from her trek. He remained calm…until the shotgun-wielding vine came into view.

Then Crane's worldview exploded and rained down on him like burning chunks of Wayfarer Flight 515. He'd really thought, after seeing the strangling vines and the giant Venus flytrap, that he was ready for anything. He was a fool. Nothing was sacred. And, apparently, humans could no longer claim the ability to use firearms as an advantage they had over plants. The plants had learned.

"Please don't shoot me," Crane whimpered.

The vine dropped the shotgun in the dirt inches from Crane's hand.

Okay, so plants hadn't just learned how to pick up weapons, they'd also learned how to supply them. Next they would be applying for membership in the NRA and making shady deals with rebels and freedom fighters around the globe.

Ivy crawled out of the jungle just as the vine version of Yuri Orlov retreated. She found Crane still flat on his back and with a brand-new expression of horror, confusion, and revelation on his face. He looked like a man who had found God, only not the benevolent, bearded deity he had expected. A god more like Cthulhu or Set.

"Jonathan?" Ivy asked.

"I was just given a shotgun by a vine. A vine armed me. First I thought it was going to shoot me, having been told of all the corn I harvested in Georgia, or all the potted ferns I was given as gifts for my office and disposed of without a second thought. But then it dropped the gun practically into my hand," Crane said, his voice far away and awed.

Ivy shook her head. "You still aren't over the concept of plants that can move and perform simple tasks."

"I thought I was. I honestly and truly thought I was. But I was wrong! I will never be prepared to see a vine point a shotgun at my face!"

"I'm sorry it scared you, Jonathan, but I needed help carrying our little stash. I only have two hands, and it's very difficult to crawl on all fours and carry guns at the same time."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure my heart will stop exploding and my mind will cease its reeling in the very near future."

"If you aren't feeling up to it, I'll take care of Black Mask myself."

Ivy was certainly armed well enough to engage Black Mask in a firefight. While she wasn't strapped with quite as many guns as _Il Duce_, Ivy and her two handguns were an intimidating trio.

That didn't mean Crane wanted her to shoulder all the risk, and he said as much. Ivy gave him a quick once-over and shook her head.

"Give me the shotgun," she said.

"You've already got two guns; how do you propose to hold, never mind fire, all three weapons?" Crane asked.

"What I should have said was _trade _me the shotgun. I'm sure it's got a nasty recoil, and your shoulders won't thank you for that."

Crane didn't even need to consider it. A shotgun butt slamming into his bandaged and abused shoulder and the general recoil of the weapon stressing his injuries was the last thing he needed. Crane happily handed the shotgun to Ivy, who transferred to him a handgun with less kick. She laid the spare handgun down amongst the leaves, where it would be easy to reach should they suck at shooting and require another dozen shots to make their point.

"Let's see how Black Mask likes it when he's the one being shot at," Ivy said. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be, I suppose."

Ivy, as she possessed both the weapon with the most lethal capability and the least number of bandaged limbs, attacked first. She popped out of the leaves like a prairie dog from its burrow and aimed the shotgun at Black Mask. If he was surprised to find a gun pointed at him, he recovered so quickly it was nigh imperceptible. With the calmness only a trained killer could possess, Black Mask aimed his much-less-impressive but potentially just-as-lethal revolver at Ivy.

Two fingers tightened on two triggers as Ivy and Black Mask stared each other down. Each of them ran separate mental calculations, gauging the strengths and weaknesses of the other. Both reached decidedly different conclusions on who would come out of the standoff the winner.

"Drop it, bitch," Black Mask ordered.

Crane rose from his camouflaged position with less speed and grace than Ivy did, but with just as much lethal intent. He leveled his gun at Black Mask and grinned.

"I believe that insult was misplaced," Crane said. "No one of this side of the glass is a bitch."

Crane's appearance forced Black Mask to rerun his calculations. This time they didn't work out so well in his favor. As his chances for survival swirled down the toilet, most of Black Mask's bravado went with them.

"Damn it," Black Mask growled.

Outnumbered, outgunned, and in danger of being taken out, Black Mask decided a tactical retreat was the best order of business. Without stowing his gun or otherwise announcing his intentions, the gangster turned tail and ran, ducking low to avoid any shotgun pellets. Black Mask didn't go very far, though. He stopped once he has the garden shed between himself and any flying lead.

Back in the greenhouse, Crane and Ivy lowered their guns but kept them on hand. Neither of them knew where Black Mask had gone once he'd disappeared from sight, but they didn't expect him to be a gracious loser.

The Riddler likewise suspected Black Mask wasn't going to throw up the white flag of surrender just yet. And that meant Nigma's hide might come under fire again. He, poor muted genius, couldn't even beg for his life, not unless Black Mask lent him a pen and paper and enough time to compose a stirring and convincing note. Since that wasn't going to happen, the Riddler decided to do the smart thing and a) get a gun and b) get some handy bodies he could hide behind. Nigma scurried around the front of the greenhouse and, before Crane or Ivy could warn him, he burst through the door.

Ivy's plants, already in a state of high agitation from all the ruckus, bore down on the intruder like a pack of junkyard dogs. Before Nigma realized what was happening, he was trussed up and suspended upside down, with particularly tight vines coiled around his wrist and ankles.

If he'd had his voice, Nigma would have been screaming for someone to get him down. Even though he could hardly make a peep, never mind form a request, the Riddler still threw the best conniption fit he could, using his body to purvey what his voice couldn't. He writhed, wiggled, flopped, and ended up sending himself swinging back and forth at a nauseating speed.

Crane and Ivy exchanged glances as the Riddler swayed like a pendulum in front of them.

"We should probably do something about that," Ivy said.

"Let the blood rush to his swollen head just a little longer," Crane replied, his eyes following Nigma's back-and-forth progress.

Ivy sighed and, after casting a quick glance to make sure Black Mask hadn't reentered the picture, limped over to the tightly constricted Riddler. She ran a hand down the coiled vines and within seconds of her touch they turned from iron into wet noodles. The Riddler slid out of the plants' slack grasp and he fell to the ground like a freshly born baby giraffe.

Baby giraffes made much more progress in the first minutes of their life than the Riddler made. He lay there, stunned, confused, and maybe a little oxygen-deprived, until Ivy gave him a slap to get him moving. That was enough coaxing to get him to his feet. Ivy then took his arm and led him like a stupid pack mule into the little leafy grotto she and Crane had hidden in.

Once Nigma's big head was no longer a juicy target, Ivy let go of his arm and allowed him to sit. He looked around on the ground as though he'd dropped something, and just as Ivy was about to ask him what he was doing, the Riddler picked up a small, incontrovertibly dead stick. He then brushed a few fallen leaves aside to create an open square of dirt.

"The monkey's going to write Shakespeare," Crane quipped.

The Riddler threw his stick at Crane. If the stick had contained twenty or thirty times more mass, it might have left a bruise. As it was, Crane swatted the dry, anemic stick and it bounced into the dense foliage, never to be seen from again.

"Boys, again?" Ivy asked, exasperated. "Can't you get along at least until I reclaim my house and send these moochers to the morgue?"

Nigma pointed at Crane and, forgetting his muteness, tried to say something. Though Nigma was inaudible, and Crane wasn't particularly good at lip-reading, he figured the Riddler was trying to drop a cargo-hold of blame onto his head. And Crane was not going to stand for that. He had a voice, and he bloody well was going to use it.

"It is _not_ all my fault. None of this would have happened if you hadn't led me into that booby-trap and left me to die," Crane said.

Nigma pointed to himself and puffed up in outrage and denial. The message was clear: Me? _Moi_? How dare you! This, Scarecrow, is so obviously _your_ fault!

Ivy rolled her eyes and pointed the shotgun at the feuding pair of villainous geniuses. That broke up their little squabble in a hurry.

"You two can play the blame game later. When I'm not around to hear it. Now, Jonathan and Edward, you are going to behave, keep your hands to yourselves, and pretend to be civilized. If you don't, I'm getting the vines," Ivy said.

Crane and Nigma each might have been the ultimate bad-ass in their own minds, but compared to stern Ivy with a shotgun, they were children being scolded. They stopped throwing sticks and accusations, and waited for Ivy to give them orders.

"Jonathan, I know plants but you know brains. Do you think the Shark will get in our way if we don't bother him first?" Ivy asked.

"In my professional opinion, no. White wants a way out, not a way into a war. Unless we engage him, he'll mind his own business," Crane replied.

"And Black Mask, he isn't going to roll over and die, is he?"

Nigma shook his head, and Crane seconded the opinion. "Whether we like it or not, we've already gone to war with Black Mask. He may have lost the last battle, but the war's still red-hot. I wouldn't be surprised if he was plotting to murder us all right now. He certainly hasn't gone off to draft a peace treaty."

"What about Zsasz?"

Crane shrugged. "Wildcard." Zsasz was as crazy as Drusilla, and just as likely to go for his prey's neck and the precious blood within. There was no reason for his existence except an ever-growing body count, and trying to predict what the deranged killer would do, especially in a situation with any number of variables, was hopeless.

"He's a monster, and if the opportunity presents itself, I vote we kill him," Ivy said.

"We might get a medal. Hell, the keys to the city aren't out of the question," Crane replied.

"The only one we _need_ to kill, though, is the Joker. I won't be satisfied until he's dead."

Nigma and Crane nodded in agreement. The Joker had it out for Crane and had tortured him, humiliated him, and made him homeless. Crane suspected the clown would never stop tormenting him until one of them was in the grave, and Crane was not going to take a dirt nap courtesy of the Joker.

"I'm glad that's decided. Now, big brains, _how_ do we kill the clownwithout getting killed ourselves? Firepower is comforting, but I wouldn't feel safe if I had a tank to use against the Joker," Ivy said.

"I wouldn't feel secure with drones, long-range missile strikes, and armored personnel carriers," Crane added.

"Long story short, we're never going to feel safe as long as the Joker is involved. Though," Ivy glanced down at the shotgun, "having this in my hands does boost my confidence."

At this point Nigma waved his hands around and made a series of jabs with his index finger, first at Ivy, and then back to himself.

"You can't speak, but I'm going to assume you're still literate. Write it out. And don't give me that look. So you haven't got your stick. Use your finger. You can get a manicure later," Crane said.

Nigma used his finger, just not the finger or in the manner Crane expected. Before Crane could reach over and break the Riddler's offensive finger, Ivy jumped into the fray and glared both potential combatants into cowardice.

"I already know what he wants, Jonathan, and we're going to give it to him. He may have made some stupid mistakes, but you can argue about them later. Right now, he's getting a gun, and then we're all going to show these bastards who's in charge."

* * *

Author's Notes:

The fanged geraniums are yet another nasty _Harry Potter_ plant. I'm doin' Professor Sprout proud!

Wayfarer Flight 515 was a plane that crashed in the TV show _Breaking Bad_.

Yuri Orlov is an arms-dealer from the movie _Lord of War_.

Set is the Egyptian god of deserts, storms, and chaos.

_Il Duce_ is a hitman from the movie _Boondock Saints_ who carried several sets of handguns with him.

Drusilla is an insane vampire from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.


	38. Mother of Snapdragons

Thanks for the reviews!

And, ahem, pardon the month-long wait. I'll try to do better...

* * *

Alfred Lord Tennyson was never going to immortalize their charge in poetry—and not just because he was dead and not around to see—but to Ivy, Crane, and Nigma, their hobbled dash from the greenhouse to the plain, old regular house was worthy of Homeric verse. They were three who had already triumphed over great adversity—and they'd somehow managed to avoid killing each other in the process, a feat so miraculous saints had been canonized for less—but their greatest battle lay yet ahead. They had to reclaim their homeland from a great and terrible villain, and in the process neither die nor mortally wound their friendship with the great and terrible villain's perpetually love-struck girlfriend.

Quite a tall order, in other words, especially for people who were each suffering personal handicaps that made movement or speech a pain in the ass.

At least they had the biggest, meanest toys.

Unless the Joker had managed to assemble a rocket launcher from kitchen utensils. Which, considering the clown's ability to produce a WMD from stuff MacGyver couldn't use, wasn't impossible.

There was no way to tell how productive the Joker had been, or what weapons he'd cooked up, without venturing into the lair of the beast. Though usually the people who ventured into the Joker's lair were in top physical condition, and covered head-to-toe in body armor. And were either the SWAT team or Batman. In this case, there wasn't so much as a kneepad to go around, and top physical condition was located on some lost continent.

Though Ivy could stand to put weight on her injured leg for more than ten seconds. And Nigma could, with great effort, produce a croak that might entice bullfrogs to mate. So at least there was good news on that front.

"Do we just go in the front door?" Ivy whispered. Her male companions, pasted flat against the house's wall like Paper Mario characters, exchanged glances. Nigma shook his head.

"The back door?" Ivy asked. Nigma shook his head again.

"I'm buying you a dry-erase board to wear around your neck when this is all over," Crane said. He then added, "Nigma is never going to answer affirmatively, no matter what entrance you suggest. He's a coward and I have no doubt is looking for any way to avoid joining us inside."

The Riddler didn't even bother denying it. He had a handgun, but he wasn't one of those criminals who thought guns equaled invincibility. He'd been beaten senseless by Batman, the police, and tenacious civilians, all while armed, and knew better.

"Too bad he's got nowhere to run, and even if he did, no way to get there," Crane said.

If Crane was trying to goad Nigma into proving his manliness by storming into the house first, he was wasting his time. The Riddler could compete with Lucifer when it came to pride, but he could also compete with Brave Sir Robin when it came to running away and saving his own ass.

"Don't start with him, Jonathan," Ivy said. "I'll go in first, then Nigma, then you. So you can make sure he doesn't get cold feet."

Crane wasn't sure he wanted Ivy to put herself in the potential line of fire first, but she did have the shotgun, and even if he opened his mouth, she wouldn't back down. In fact, she'd probably get grumpy, and tell him she could take care of herself, plus him and Nigma. Because she was like Sarah Connor, Ellen Ripley, Michonne, and Hermione all wrapped into one magnificent package.

Ivy, amalgamated strong-woman extraordinaire, strode into the house with as little a limp as she could manage. Nigma reluctantly followed when Crane poked him in the back with the muzzle of his gun. Crane brought up the rear and kept a watchful eye on the Riddler, who was looking pretty twitchy.

There was no sign of human habitation in the living room. Ivy led her process into the kitchen, which was likewise empty. The lack of life wasn't very comforting, as it suggested Zsasz, the Joker, and Harley were all on the second floor. And if Crane had learned anything from horror movies, it was that going upstairs with the psychotic killer was a dumb idea.

Her injured leg had supported her on a level surface, but one look at the stairs sent bolts of protesting agony from the tips of Ivy's toes into the meat of her hip. Crane noticed Ivy's distress, and, at the risk of letting Nigma get away, broke rank and approached her.

"You can stay here and Nigma and I will clear upstairs," Crane said.

"No," Ivy replied.

"This has nothing to do with your sex. It has everything to do with your inability to walk. If you were a male, I would be just as firm. If you go upstairs, you're going to hurt yourself further and you're going to be an easy target. What would you do it we had to escape in a hurry? Hmm? Roll downstairs? It isn't fun, I can tell you from experience."

"No!"

Ivy swung the shotgun up, towards Crane's chest, and he immediately threw his hands into the air in supplication. The sudden movement jarred his cuts, which had been up to that point more-or-less behaving, but a little pain didn't seem very important compared to the massive hole Ivy could put in him if her finger twitched against the trigger a little too hard.

"I retract my earlier statements and will rely fully on your judgment concerning these matters," Crane said, his hands still raised.

"No, Jonathan, not that! Move!" Ivy yelled.

Crane looked over his shoulder, which was not the type of movement Ivy needed from him, and found what had riled Ivy up. It was the Riddler, or, more precisely, the knife-wielding killer who had emerged from behind the sofa and was now restraining the Riddler and looking to carve himself some arrogant, super-genius fillets.

By the time Crane ducked out of the way, there was no way for Ivy to get off any shots. Zsasz had one arm around the Riddler's chest, and the other arm held a wickedly sharp and menacing vegetable knife against his throat. Asides from the exposed arms, there was little of Zsasz showing to present a target. He was a hell of a hostage taker, and knew how to hide behind his prey so even a well-aimed batarang was a risky endeavor.

And neither Crane nor Ivy could claim Batman's accuracy.

"Let him go!" Ivy ordered.

That was not the way to go about it, Crane decided. Getting emotional, putting worth on the Riddler's life. No, definitely a bad idea.

"Or don't," Crane said.

Ivy gaped at Crane. She knew he and Nigma weren't exactly blood brothers, but offering the guy to Zsasz? Ivy didn't think she'd offer Tony Hayward to the maniac.

"Which one will it be?" Zsasz asked. "Do I or don't I?"

Crane crossed his fingers and hoped Ivy would trust him enough to let him deal with the latest crisis. And that she didn't care that much for the Riddler. If their shared love of the color green bonded them too tightly, Crane's nonchalant approach to Nigma at knifepoint would never work.

"Don't. What do I care? That bastard led me into a trap, and it's directly his fault I spent last night in your stellar company. Let him feel the blade like I did," Crane said.

Nigma was so distressed by Crane's dismissal that he managed to force a whole new noise out of his mouth, a noise that sounded halfway between a very naughty four-letter-word and the hoot of a sick owl. Nobody, including Nigma himself, was all that impressed. He tried to swear at Crane again but was cut off as Zsasz pressed the knife into the vulnerable flesh of his throat.

"That isn't very nice," Zsasz said. "Though I can't blame you. _He_ isn't very nice. No, he's the type of person to ruin another's fun and break their nose in the process."

"Few people have ever deserved a broken nose as much as you," Crane replied. "You deserved one then, and you deserve one now."

The Riddler got the hint. Praying this would work and wouldn't end with him being tuned into a macabre Pez dispenser, Nigma jerked his head backwards in a reverse headbutt. The thick bone of his skull met the decidedly softer cartilage and skin of Zsasz's face, and the effect was similar to taking a brick to a steak. The sound was pretty close, too.

Zsasz jerked away and released his hold on the Riddler. Nigma wasted no time scrambling away from the scarred psychopath. He threw himself behind Crane and Ivy and, still feeling too exposed, drew himself up like a turtle and covered his head.

To nobody's surprise Zsasz had disarmed the Riddler before giving him the hug-from-behind of death, but everyone who still had a gun pointed it at the reeling serial killer. Zsasz was in a world of hurt, and blood was flowing freely from between the fingers that clutched his nose, but he was still clearheaded enough to remember Crane and Ivy had guns. And that as much as he preferred knives, they weren't much good against bullets and buckshot.

At least not head-to-head. But Zsasz wasn't exactly an honor-bound samurai who was compelled to face his opponent according to an ancient set of rules. Chucking knives at the easiest and closest target worked just fine for him.

Crane seemed to forget how guns worked the moment he saw Zsasz cock his arm back like a pitcher winding up. The knife was far from aerodynamic, but in such close confines, and thrown with the impressive speed and power Zsasz could produce, even a glancing blow could be devastating. Supposing the maniac got lucky—or supposing he had some preternatural control over knives, as some of the wilder rumors circulating around Gotham suggested—the vegetable knife was as lethal to Crane as it was to carrots.

With a flick of his wrist, Zsasz sent the blade flying. Crane threw himself to the right, and the knife scored a shallow cut on his biceps. The knife continued almost unchanged in its trajectory and put Ivy in its sights.

If Ivy had not brought her shotgun up like a shield, the knife would have imbedded itself in her chest. As was, Ivy's impressive reflexes protected her, and the knife bounced off the shotgun's barrel, leaving a shallow gouge.

The damage done was minimal, but it was enough of a distraction for Zsasz to escape. He sprinted to the front door and was gone before either Crane or Ivy could collect themselves enough to shoot at him.

"That could have gone better," Crane said as he straightened up and examined the newest of his battle wounds.

"And it could have gone worse," Ivy replied, running her finger down the scratch the knife had inflicted on her shotgun.

Regardless of other theoretical outcomes, Zsasz was gone in the real world. How far or for how long, nobody was sure. But while there was one less psychopathic fiend in the house, Crane and Ivy intended to take care of the Joker. And that required prying Nigma off the floor and, if the need should arise, dragging him by his ear up the stairs.

"Get up, Nigma. You were never in any danger, you coward. You had two unwitting meat shields to protect your yellow hide," Crane said, nudging the Riddler with his foot.

Nigma squawked at him like a ruffled parrot. Crane was not in the mood to be back-sassed, particularly not by high-pitched, incomprehensible noises. Said noises were, Crane realized, even worse than the usual prattling, egomaniacal crap the Riddler spouted. At least then Crane knew what he was saying, and knew how cruel to be to him in recompense. Here, Crane couldn't tell if the Riddler was trying to insult him, ask him a question, or invite him to bake cookies. Though it probably wasn't the third option, as getting dough under his fingernails would make Nigma cry.

"I don't care. Get your gun, and then we're taking out the Joker," Crane said.

The Riddler shot him a glare but extricated himself from the floor. Still sulking, Nigma crossed the floor, picked up his gun from where it had skidded when Zsasz had pried it from his hand, and then motioned for Crane to lead the way up the stairs.

"No, _you_ lead the way," Crane said.

The Riddler shook his head. Sure, he would have liked to get revenge on the Joker for claiming jokes were better than riddles, and for mocking riddles, and for generally being a bastard, but he liked being alive just a little bit more. Whoever ventured upstairs first was likely to be treated worse than a robber in a _Home Alone_ movie.

"The stairs are wide enough for both of you," Ivy pointed out.

Nigma nodded hastily and Crane tried not to look too hurt. She had to value him over Nigma, didn't she? After all, she'd never slept with Nigma. Right? Oh, God, please let it be so.

Trying not to think about Ivy and Nigma together, and not entirely succeeding, because the human brain is notorious for thinking about exactly what it's been told _not_ to, Crane mounted the first step. He waited for the Riddler to join him before taking the second step. As though they'd been turned into Siamese twins by an invisible bond, from that point onward Crane and Nigma climbed in tandem until they reached the top landing.

As though he was preparing to cross the street, Crane looked left and then right down the hallway. All the doors were closed. As far as horror movie scenarios went, a hallway full of shut doors promised the sudden appearance of a monster, and almost guaranteed some sort of gory wound courtesy of said monster.

"Before you even think it, I've seen _Scooby-Doo_, and no, we're not splitting up," Crane said. "I'll open the doors, and you will stand back, ready to shoot on my command. And I cannot stress this enough: be ready. The moment I say 'fire,' you'd better be obeying, not daydreaming about the next time you try to trap Batman in some moronic maze."

Nigma wanted to say he'd never been more offended in his whole life, but the two truths were: he couldn't say much of anything, and he had been more insulted. Though not by much.

Crane opened the first door. Ivy's bedroom. He highly doubted even the Joker would be stupid or crazy enough to hide in there, especially after the plants had nearly killed him, but maybe the lunatic had gone back for his clothes. If heroes took extreme measures to save their stupid hats, the Joker might have braved Ivy's furious vines to retrieve his undies.

Crane looked around the room and, while he did see several articles of the Joker's clothes being strangled or passed around from vine to vine, of the clown himself there was no hint. Crane closed the door and backed away. He didn't think to look behind him before reversing, and he ended up colliding with the Riddler, who had by some miracle listened to orders and had stayed a mere two feet behind Crane, alert and ready to shoot if needed. Not that the Riddler's diligence meant anything when Crane rounded on him and stuck an irate finger in his face.

"Why are you standing so close?! What if I'd had to run, or dive out of the way? I'd have smacked into you, and we'd likely both be dead!" Crane shouted.

Nigma threw up his hands. Crane told him to stand by and be ready, and when he listened, what happened? He was castigated. If he'd wandered off down the hall, the same thing would have happened.

Some people just couldn't be pleased. And Crane was one of them.

"Don't do it again," Crane finished.

Nigma gave him a very sardonic thumbs-up. Crane considered making a grab for the thumb and trying to break it, but he figured Nigma would need his fingers to properly hold the gun. For now, there would be no dislocating digits. For now.

The next room was the bathroom, and while it had been messed with, it was devoid of clowns. There was no time to clean up the toothpaste that had been smeared on the mirror in very naughty patterns, but there was time to hide one offense Ivy would never endure quietly: the toilet seat was up. Crane was never going to touch skin to anything the Joker's ass might have been on, but that was one of the reasons people had invented shoes. Crane nudged the seat down with his foot, and made a mental note to later fumigate, sterilize, and, should he still feel dirty, burn the shoes and then salt the ashes.

The last room, barring the linen closet, was Harley's room. Crane put his ear to the door, just to make sure the Joker and Harley weren't having loud sex within. _That_ he did not need to see. When no moans reached his ears, Crane decided to take his chances. He turned the doorknob and threw open the door.

"Come back to bed, Puddin'. We can— Ah! Professor Crane, can't you see I'm naked here?" Harley shrieked, pulling the covers up, but not before Crane and Nigma both got eyefuls they would never forget.

"Oh God," Crane muttered, slamming the door.

"Wow," the Riddler said. Then he tilted his head in confusion. Anger, fear, a desire to verbally castrate Crane, none of those things had managed to get an audible word out of his mouth. But Harley Quinn without her clothes, that did the trick. And, worst of all, Crane was there to witness it.

"We're never going to talk about this. Any of it, with anyone," Crane said, his face red and his eyes averted.

Nigma shook his head. His voice had, like a turtle's head, disappeared into its shell once more.

To distract himself from the image burned like a brand into his memories, Crane forced himself to look at the problem on hand. The Joker wasn't here, but he had been not long ago, as Harley's state of undress could attest. So where was he? Just to be sure, Crane checked the linen closet. No clown. If he wasn't in there, then he wasn't upstairs. And, asides from Zsasz behind the sofa, nobody had been downstairs. Had the clown vanished, leapt out a window, shrunk to the size of plankton?

Nigma tapped Crane on the shoulder and pointed up.

Of course. Crane could have smacked himself. The attic.

Motioning for Nigma to follow, Crane approached the dangling string that pulled down the ladder to the attic. He grasped the rope and gave it a sharp tug. The ladder descended with a squeak.

The toaster descended with less noise, at least until it hit its victim on the head.

* * *

AN: Wow, tons of random allusions this chapter. Might hold the record.

Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote the poem _Charge of the Light Brigade_, which is about the ill-fated charge of said brigade during the Crimean War.

MacGyver is a secret agent famous for his ability to make exactly the tool he needs out of crap lying around.

Paper Mario is a video game where Mario and friends explore a 2-D, paper world.

Brave Sir Robin is a cowardly knight from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_.

Sarah Connor (_Terminator_ series), Ellen Ripley (_Alien_ series), Michonne (_The Walking Dead_), and Hermione (_Harry Potter_) are all strong female characters.

Tony Hayward was the CEO of BP during the Gulf Coast oil spill.

In the _Home Alone_ movies, resourceful budding psychopath Kevin defeats burglars by rigging traps, including staple-guns, a falling tool-chest, bricks, and ropes soaked in kerosene.

In almost every episode of _Scooby-Doo_, Fred suggested the gang split up. It usually ended with the monster chasing someone.


	39. A Tragic Lack of Unicorns

Thanks for the reviews.

Sorry about the delay, but hey, for once I have a legitimate excuse. My poor old laptop is at the end of its life. So most of this chapter had to be written on a tablet. _Not_ conducive to speed.

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There was something wrong with his head. No, scratch that, there were _a lot_ of things wrong with his head. There was the drill-bit of agony that had imbedded itself deep in the meat of his brain. There was the way the world swayed as though on the deck of a ship in troubled waters. There was the double vision whenever he tried to focus. And then the rolling blackness that washed over him, erasing all those other problems, at least for a little while.

When Crane awoke for the second time, there was no merciful escape back into unconsciousness. There was just cruel light lancing his eyeballs, and then continuing straight through into his skull. Crane narrowed his eyes to slits, blocking out some of the light, but his migraine gave no noticeable sign of appreciation.

"Crane."

Someone was calling his name. Someone annoying. Crane couldn't remember exactly who the whiny, simpering voice belonged to. Only that the person in question was a pain in the ass the size of the Jupiter.

"Crane." Perfect. The voice, already contemptibly pitiful, dissolved into a helpless whimper.

"Uh," Crane replied. He meant to say something more scathing, but it seemed like the list of things wrong with his head included the inability to form complete sentences. Or any sentences, for that matter.

"Please tell me you don't have brain damage."

"Idiot," Crane muttered.

"I'll take that as a good sign."

Crane, his eyes still squinted, turned his head towards the voice. His head didn't like the movement, and sent a spike of pain down into his neck and spine. Crane hissed like Crawly, ground his teeth together, and persevered.

When his eyes finally settled on the source of the voice, Crane was initially confounded. His brain, which must have been recovering from whatever had happened to it, instantly put a name to the face: Edward Nigma, aka the Riddler, aka Crane's future test subject. What didn't jive was the absurd, bright-red beard Nigma had managed to grow since the last time Crane had seen him. Unless Crane had been in a coma for months, and Nigma had been living with lumberjacks or Vikings, something was very off about the Riddler's new facial decoration.

Crane opened his eyes a bit more and gasped involuntarily. It wasn't a beard Nigma was sporting, at least not a beard in the traditional hirsute sense. Most of the lower portion of his face, from his nose down to his chin, was stained with relatively fresh blood.

"What happened to you?" Crane asked.

"You told me to break his nose!" Nigma shrilled.

"Oh, for Christ's sake." If light hurt his head, Nigma's moronic accusations jumped up and down on it while wearing spiked cleats.

"I'm sorry I saved your life. I should have let Zsasz kill you," Crane grumbled.

"He's going to, anyway. Unless Black Mask kills me first. What was I ever thinking, getting involved with this?"

Why did Nigma have to have his voice back? It wasn't like he ever did anything except complain or make horrible riddles with it. Really, there were far more deserving people who would be much happier to have a voice of their own, and who would put speech to infinitely better, less criminal and less grating purposes.

The Riddler continued to drone on, and Crane decided to ignore him in favor of something more productive: staying alive. He didn't remember everything that had happened to him—his memory seemed to blank out on him putting down the toilet seat, of all the banal and stupid places—but he remembered enough to suspect the Joker was responsible for his head trauma. And since he was still breathing, Crane figured the clown wasn't done with him yet.

The first part of escape was to discern where he actually had to escape from. Crane turned his head away from the Riddler and looked around. Between the bags of fertilizer and the stacks of plant pots, Crane deduced he was in Ivy's garden shed. Okay. That was a good place to start.

Next, Crane had to determine what was keeping him in the shed. He tried to lift his arms and found them immobilized. Same with his legs. Crane looked down and found thick strips of duct tape wound around his arms, which were in turn secured to a chair. The chair was familiar, and had, up until some very recent moment, sat next to the kitchen table.

Crane summed up his situation. He was in terrible pain, he was bound hand and foot to a chair, he was in a shed, and for companionship he had a sniveling, useless excuse for a human being. Oh, and any second now, his companionship might grow to include any number of serial killers and maniacs, none of whom particularly liked him.

He'd gotten out of worse.

And would find some way to get out of this. If only the Riddler would cease his inane babble. That would certainly make things less agonizing.

"Nigma, would you kindly _shut up_ and let me concentrate?" Crane asked.

"That only works in _Bioshock_," Nigma muttered.

Crane failed to hear the Riddler, which was probably for the best. Having to endure Nigma explaining the finer plot points of _Bioshock_ and then bragging about his videogame accomplishments while their lives could be ended or made infinitely worse at any moment would have likely enraged Crane to the point he began to foam at the mouth.

The Riddler did have the courtesy to stop whining about how they were all going to die, though the thoughts kept circulating in his head. Not that Crane cared what went on in the quiet of Nigma's mind. So long as he didn't have to hear it spoken, Nigma could have a mental debate over the best animal to mate with.

Now that Nigma was silent, Crane could concentrate. He looked down at the tape wound around his wrists, and tried to wriggle free. The tape clung tightly to both his skin and the wood of the chair, and all his resisting did little except tear the hair from his arms and make him wince.

So he couldn't squirm his way out. Maybe he could…chew his way to freedom. If he could lean forward without either passing out again or throwing up in his own lap.

Crane took a deep breath and steeled himself against the pain and vertigo that were sure to kick him in the head the moment he moved his neck. There was no use delaying the inevitable, so Crane began to slowly but steadily lower his head towards his tightly-taped right wrist. He prayed he was flexible enough to reach the duct tape, and that the aforementioned vomiting and unconsciousness wouldn't affect him, and if it did, it would hold off until he had his dominant hand liberated.

Nigma stopped his silent griping and watched Crane with growing curiosity, and an almost certainly misplaced sense of budding hope. Everything about Crane was long and awkward, his neck and torso included. While it was impossible for Nigma to reach the tape around his wrists, Crane's gawky physique made it just about possible.

It was a hell of a stretch, but by twisting his wrist and sticking his birdlike neck out like ET's, Crane was able to sink his teeth into the edge of the top layer of tape.

And he had no idea what to do from there. Given less agony in his skull, he might have tried shaking his head like a terrier with a rat in the hopes of fraying the tape or loosening it. As things stood, any violent and sudden movement would not lead to escape (except maybe escape from consciousness). And seeing as how he could only grip the edge of the tape, simply chewing through the sticky strips would accomplish nothing.

Though he had no next move, Crane was reluctant to unlock his jaw. It had been torture to reach the tape, and letting go after all that misery, effort, and contortion was an exponentially larger defeat than never reaching the tape would have been.

Another minute of duct tape limbo and Crane's considerable stubbornness was collapsing under the physical onslaught his injured body was forced to endure. Pain struck his head in waves. Waves made of rocks and medieval flails and Batman's fists. The pain from his head was so severe it attacked the rest of his body, turning his stomach and beading his hairline with sweat. Said sweat began to trickle down Crane's forehead, toward his eyes. That might have led to more pain, but Crane had closed his eyes in an attempt to quell the nausea. The sweat ran harmlessly over his eyelids and continued down his face.

Nigma, not surprisingly for a genius of his singular caliber, was right: his hope in Crane had been misplaced. Nobody who was turning that shade of green, unless he was Bruce Banner, was going to be of any use.

"Crane, you've done enough," the Riddler said. "Stop before you make yourself sick. I _do not _want to be trapped in a small space that reeks of partial digestion!"

Alright, enough. There was nothing more he could do except make his situation worse by tossing his cookies. His efforts had meant nothing in the end, but sometimes there was no choice but to cut and run. Crane opened his mouth and let the tape, upon which he'd impressed a clear dental imprint, slip away.

So he'd failed. At least it was done, and he could lift his head-though certainly not in pride-and hopefully relieve the writhing worm-ball in his gut. A small compensation, but-

"Too bad, Johnny! If you were only a little more flexible, you could have _really_ kept yourself entertained!"

Ah, of course, the poisoned icing on the arsenic cake. The Joker had been standing in the doorway behind them, and had been watching Crane's futile calisthenics. And, as was a guarantee with the Joker, the clown had an array of perverted jokes ready to further belittle Crane, turning agony and effort into teenage-boy potty humor. It was like inserting fart jokes and topless women into _127 Hours. _

_"_Please just shoot me in the back of the head so I can die without ever again laying eyes on you. Give me that small mercy," Crane said.

The Joker sauntered over to the bound Crane and draped a chummy arm across his shoulders. "Mercy, me? Do I look like Kevorkian to you? I hope not. He's older than hell!"

"And dead," Zsasz added behind the Joker.

At the sound of Zsasz's voice, Nigma cringed. The Riddler had, for the most part, stayed off of other rogues' radar. He didn't get in their way, and he interacted with only a few of them. Until his uncharacteristically moronic decision to interfere with the Joker's plans and stick his neck out. In a single day he had gone from unaffiliated and safe to on the kill list of Black Mask and Victor Zsasz.

And Zsasz looked ready to cross Nigma's name off his list. While the Joker palled it up with Crane, Zsasz walked over to Nigma. The serial killer was as quiet as a cat, and Nigma didn't know he was so close until he felt fingers close around his shoulder.

"You know, I never understood the fascination with Kevorkian. He was a waste. What good is liberating zombies who have already suffered so long they finally come begging for their freedom? The ones who truly need relief are the ones oblivious to their suffering. Don't you agree?" Zsasz asked.

When Nigma remained scared into silence, Zsasz tightened his grip, digging strong fingers into his shoulder. "An intelligent man such as yourself has to have some opinion," Zsasz said. "Share it."

Riddle: How did you tell someone as unstable and lethal as Zsasz that his whole philosophy, no, his whole reason for existing, was crazier than a meeting of Jim Jones and the Manson family?

Answer: Very, very carefully.

"No comment." There, very safe, and it worked for politicians, criminals, lawyers, and the section of the Venn diagram that encompassed all three.

Drawing quicker than a gunslinger, Zsasz whipped a small but wickedly sharp paring knife from his pocket. The same edge that would peel paper-thin layers from a fruit could be just as useful at whittling skin off Eddie's soft throat. Zsasz laid this knife against Nigma's neck.

"If that's your final answer, you hardly live up to your ego," Zsasz said.

Nigma floundered. His "safe" answer had turned out to be as safe as Alaskan crab fishing. Coming up with a better response was paramount, but the Riddler did not work well under pressure, especially when it was the physical pressure of a knife against his skin.

"I never considered it. And, as I have insufficient information to weigh the philosophical implications, I would like to abstain my vote."

Zsasz withdrew the knife, and Nigma had to fight back sobs of relief. When Zsasz also removed his hand from Nigma's shoulder, Nigma couldn't stifle his shuddering sigh. He had been worried his answer sounded like a Philosophy 101 cop-out, but it seemed to have satisfied Zsasz.

Or maybe not.

Zsasz moved from his position behind Nigma to crouch down in front of him at eye-level. If there was anything creepier and more worrisome than having the deranged slasher behind you, it was having him directly in front of you and staring into your eyes. At least when he was behind you, you weren't treated to a close-up view of his scars, and you were spared the knowledge that Zsasz seemed to have no need to blink. Ever.

"You're an agnostic," Zsasz said.

"Mine's an atheist. Does that mean I win?" the Joker asked.

As very few people dared to do, Zsasz ignored the Joker. He kept his eyes locked on the Riddler, who didn't bother trying to meet the scarred killer's ultimately unnerving gaze. In fact, Nigma looked everywhere except directly at Zsasz. The ceiling, the floor, Crane, the Joker, the inside of his own eyelids... And all the while the Riddler was being evasive, Zsasz was silent, waiting to continue.

Finally, after nearly five minutes of awkward silence and roving eyeballs, Nigma relented. "What?" he asked."What are you waiting for? What response would you like? What can I say to make you stare down someone else?"

"Agree with me."

Nigma kicked his duct-taped feet best he could. "I endured the worst staring contest in history for that? Fine! I am a fence-sitter, undeclared, the audience every presidential candidate wants to schmooze! Now what do you say to that?"

"I say I can sway you," Zsasz replied.

"Tell him about the platypus! That'll do the trick. Wait... Johnny, who argues for the platypus? Atheists or the other guys?" The Joker scratched his head. "I need to start paying attention in church. But it's just so hard when the priest is on fire and the altar boys are catching."

Crane groaned, and though he desperately wanted to be excluded from this insanity, he wanted to shut up the Joker's stupidity just a little more. There was, after all, the dim and distant hope Zsasz would appreciate it so much he'd kill the Joker, apologize for slashing Crane to ribbons, and then release him.

And maybe while he was at it, he'd cure cancer, end world hunger, and prove the existence of unicorns, thus fulfilling the wishes of little children everywhere.

Crane didn't get his hopes up.

"He's speaking metaphorically," Crane explained. "He isn't interested in converting Nigma to a religion, or from religion. He means to, and I think I know how, prove that his disgusting works of butchery are merciful."

Zsasz turned to Crane, pointed his paring knife at him, and grinned. "When I've finished enlightening him, I will convert you, too."

So much for the unicorns.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Crawly is a demon from the totally excellent novel _Good Omens_. He has a tendency to hiss when angry.

In _Bioshock_, the phrase "would you kindly" was a hypnotic trigger that instilled total obedience.

E.T. of the movie of the same name had a long flexible neck.

Bruce Banner is everyone's favorite big green rage monster, the Incredible Hulk.

_127 Hours_ is a movie about a man trapped beneath a boulder for the aforementioned 127 hours and what he has to do to survive.

Jim Jones was the leader of a massive suicide cult. The Manson family wasn't a lot saner.


	40. Politics as Usual

Wow, it's beautiful to have a keyboard again. *Hugs new computer* Night Monkey loves you!

Thanks for the reviews! And my bearing with my disgusting displays of monkey on computer affection.

* * *

Ivy was used to protecting Harley, comforting her when something went wrong with her boyfriend, and keeping her from doing anything rash and dumb. It happened at least once a month. But for the roles to be reversed, Ivy couldn't say she'd ever seen that one coming.

"Come on, Red, let me see your ankle," Harley said.

Ivy pushed her away. "It's a sprained ankle. It'll heal. Whatever they're doing to Jonathan and Nigma might not."

"I'm sure Mister J wouldn't-"

"Like hell he wouldn't! Harley, they are going to die unless I do something!"

Ivy stood up and her injured ankle almost buckled. Harley pulled her back down to the couch.

"You can't even walk, Red. How 'bout this? I'll go find Mister J and talk to him."

That would be alright, if Harley was any sort of objective. But she wasn't. Harley could walk in on the Joker while the clown was treating Nigma and Crane like pine logs during the Lumberjack World Championships, and a few sweet words would make her forget all about the blood-splatter.

"Harley," Ivy said with a sigh, "do you know why you shouldn't let a fox guard the hen house?"

The blonde tilted her head. "Sure, Red. But what's that got to do with this?"

"You're the fox's girlfriend."

Harley giggled. "Mister J _is_ a fox."

Ivy gagged. "Just go find him. Don't talk to him, just spy. And then come back and tell me where he's taken Jonathan and Nigma, and what he's done with them."

Harley gave Ivy a thumbs-up and hopped off the couch.

Of the many things Harley was, a bloodhound wasn't one of them. Luckily, she didn't need to borrow Sherlock Holmes' power of deduction to figure out where the Joker had dragged and threatened Nigma and Crane to. They obviously weren't in the house, and as Ivy's house was in the middle of nowhere, there were only so many places outside that offered any privacy. The greenhouse was out, since the Joker hated plants, unless they were fake flowers that squirted acid or poison gas. The crashed van was too small for a decent clubhouse. That left the shed.

Being a former gymnast, and a current criminal, Harley was light on her feet when she wanted to be. She played her best 007, creeping out the front door and towards the shed. The diminishing light of early evening gave her shadows to play with, and she crawled, dashed, and scrambled her way across the broad lawn.

All of Harley's grace deserted her the moment the shed door came into sight. Someone was guarding the door, which Harley hadn't been expecting, and she, in surprise, wound up tripping over her own feet in the middle of what was supposed to be a silent cartwheel. She fell flat on her face and ate grass.

The guard, of course, saw it all. And laughed at her.

"Clown, your girlfriend's here!" the guard shouted into the shed

"Take a message!" came the Joker's reply.

"The Joker's not in right now," the guard said.

"Yes he is, I just heard him," Harley replied, spitting out the grass and wiping dirt from her front teeth.

"She's gotten smarter! Damn!" the Joker exclaimed. "Tell her I'm busy!"

The guard—by his voice, dress, and wooden facial expressions, Harley identified him as Black Mask—turned away from Harley and shouted into the shed, "Tell her yourself!"

"What am I paying you for if you can't even deliver a simple message? I need a better secretary! I'm sure Bruce Wayne has plenty. Remind me to kidnap one later. A good one. Who wears short skirts to the office and can get me lattes," the Joker said. "Or are they cappuccinos? Which one has the foam?"

As though Harley wasn't laying there like a fallen branch and listening to it all, Black Mask and the Joker got into a row right then and there. Harley felt like a child listening from her room while her parents argued. If one parent happened to be an insane homicidal clown, and the other a gangster from hell. And if, instead of fighting about money, they fought about who was going to kill whom.

"This is bullshit, clown! It was bullshit when you gave that freakshow first dibs on Nigma, and let me tell you, the situation hasn't improved since your girlfriend showed up," Black Mask said.

"He asked; you said gimme. Not to mention, did you see what his nose looks like now? It's like a blobfish."

Harley didn't like the sound of what she was hearing, and not just the part where someone's nose was now a bulbous, misshapen mass of flabby meat. Though, now that she thought about it, the news of blobfish nose was more important and terrifying than she originally considered. Because there was only one real candidate for the title. It couldn't be the Joker or Black Mask, the Shark didn't have a nose, Eddie couldn't call first dibs on himself, and Professor Crane's nose was more Snape than underwater Play-Doh mush. That meant...

"Puddin'!" Harley shrieked. "You can't give Eddie to that gross maniac!"

The Joker, apparently giving up on using his disgruntled secretary as a go-between, opened the shed door and stuck his head out. "Harley, the adults are talking."

"But Mister J, Eddie and Professor Crane are my friends!"

"You can always make new ones."

"But- No! I don't wanna make new ones!" Harley got to her feet. "I want you to let them go right now! If anybody here needs new friends, it's you, Mister J! These guys stink!"

The Joker sighed. "Harley, Pumpkin Pie, Sugar Cookie, Fluffernutter, this is none of your business."

"Yes it is! They're my friends, they're nice to me, and I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to them."

Black Mask shook his head. "I have had it up to here with all you people. Enough is a enough."

Harley glared at Black Mask. "You ain't my favorite person, either." She stuck her tongue out at him, crossed her eyes, and scrunched up her nose in disgust.

It may have been the way a kindergartner would have displayed her displeasure, but Black Mask's answer was not to put Harley in the time-out corner for five minutes or make her stay in from recess. It was to point a gun at her.

Harley peeped. She didn't like Black Mask to begin with—she'd heard his mask had been carved from a coffin, and even if it had been carved in a high school shop class from run-of-the-mill maple, it was still creepier than Michael's, Jason's, and Ghostface's masks combined—and aiming a gun at her didn't earn any friendship points.

"Mister J! Look what he's doin'!" Harley shrieked.

"That's my girlfriend! Only I'm allowed to threaten her life!" the Joker shouted.

Black Mask kept his gun trained on Harley, and with his free hand, reached back and grabbed hold of the Joker's face. He shoved the clown back into the shed, and slammed the door for good measure.

If Black Mask was willing to be that belligerent towards the Joker, Harley knew her street cred wasn't going to save her. She did the only wise thing: she ran away screaming.

* * *

Inside the shed, the Joker stumbled back, collided with Crane's chair, and, as he fell against the chair, upended it. Crane, duct-taped hand and foot to the chair, had no choice but to go down with his seat. There was no way not to land painfully, though given that the alternative could have broken his neck, or at least given him another concussion, coming to rest on his side was the best of a bad situation.

The Joker landed atop the chair and a jutting leg jabbed him in the gut. The breath was knocked from the Joker, and it felt like he'd had a hole punched through his stomach. Groaning and clutching his aching belly, the Joker rolled off the chair and collapsed next to Crane.

"I'll kill him!" the Joker wheezed. "I'll squeeze his throat 'til his mask turns blue! I'll turn him into Swiss cheese! I'll...oh, I think I'll throw up first."

Unfazed by the scene he'd just seen unfold, Zsasz set a plant pot in front of the moaning Joker. "Throw up in there."

The Joker swatted the ceramic pot. "You're not very helpful."

Zsasz tilted his head. "What would you like me to do?"

"Go out there and kill Black Mask!"

"He has a gun. And I'm busy with this one." Zsasz poked his knife at Nigma, who whimpered.

The Joker staggered to his feet and pressed a hand to his gut. "You've got to do everything yourself."

After braining Crane with a toaster—and snatching up Crane's gun to threaten the Riddler into disarming—the Joker had amassed a nice arsenal. Certainly a much nicer and more effective arsenal than the knives Zsasz had. Despite his superior weaponry, the Joker did nothing but bitch as he pulled Crane's former handgun from the ever-popular hiding place that was the back of his waistband.

Having no talent for subtlety, the Joker kicked open the shed door like Rambo. Black Mask must have been anticipating some retribution for shoving the Joker, because he was facing the shed, waiting. As the Joker raised his gun, Black Mask mimed him.

"I think it's fair to say we've all had more than enough of you, clown. It's time for a regime change," Black Mask said.

The Joker scoffed. "Why? Do I have untapped oil reserves? Or am I supporting the Reds?"

"Because you're a lunatic and I've had enough of you. Now either drop your gun and get the hell out of here, or I can just send you to hell."

"I demand a recount! And a second opinion! Vic, get out here," the Joker ordered.

Zsasz, frowning, stepped out from the shed. "Don't involve me in this."

"You heard the man. Go back to whatever you're doing in there. But leave Nigma alive! I'll deal with him when I'm done here," Black Mask said.

"Freeze!" the Joker said. "You're not going anywhere until you vote, mister."

"You can't force someone to vote. That isn't democratic," Zsasz said.

"Fine, I'll use good, old-fashioned American persuasion to win your vote. Black Mask is a terrorist. And I love babies. Just don't ask for specifics about those babies."

"Kill each other. There, that's my vote." Having cast his ballot (via an unexpected third-party write-in candidate) Zsasz returned to the shed.

"That didn't clear up anything," the Joker said. "We're going to need to bring this to the Supreme Court."

"For Christ's sake."

* * *

If not for her damned leg, Ivy would have been pacing. No, scratch that, she would have been out waging war against the bastards that had invaded her home and kidnapped her Scarecrow. Being forced to sit and wait for Harley—who, for all Ivy knew, was getting frisky with the Joker at that very moment—was frustrating beyond belief.

Ivy was just about to start punching the couch cushions when the front door banged open. There were rapid footsteps and then Harley, shrieking like a fire engine's siren, threw herself at Ivy's feet. Ivy had been expected it to go poorly, but not so poorly Harley was reduced to a hysterical mess.

"Red, Mister J wouldn't even talk to me! He was usin' Black Mask as a guard, and I fell down and he laughed at me and then he was gonna shoot me and he hit Mister J in the face! My poor Puddin's beautiful face! And I think that creepy psycho's hurtin' Eddie and Professor Crane, but I don't know!"

Ivy was tempted to say "I told you so" but Harley's news was too disconcerting to leave room for pettiness. With how fast Harley had been speaking, it was a little difficult for Ivy to keep track of sentence subjects, but the gist was all bad. The Joker had Crane and Nigma, Black Mask was still a player in the game, and either he or another madman the Joker had brought with him were potentially torturing Crane and Nigma. Oh, and Harley had nearly been shot. That little detail couldn't exactly be ignored, either.

"Harley, you realize we have to do something, right?" Ivy asked.

Harley nodded. "Uh-huh. I thought maybe Mister J had things under control. He doesn't."

"Of course he doesn't," Ivy said with a snort before she could stop herself.

The blonde sniffed. "I think maybe he's in a lot of trouble, and he doesn't even realize it. And I think Eddie and the Professor are in a lot of trouble too, but I'm pretty sure they do realize it."

Ivy face-palmed. "Yes, Harley, I think they do, too."

"So let's go save 'em!"

There was plenty to be said about enthusiasm, but as even men in the White House learned, there was even more to be said about planning. Both women wanted to go out and kick some ass, but the ass happened to be protected by guns. And knives. And if all else failed, fists. To beat guns, knives, and physical strength, Harley and Ivy needed help.

"Your Babies. Bud and Lucky, call them," Ivy said.

"It's Bud and _Lou_. And I don't know, Red. I don't want them gettin' hurt."

Ivy's first impulse was to demand why mangy, flower-killing hyenas were worth so much more than Harley's human friends, but that would only lead to Harley becoming inconsolable and useless. There was no time for that, so instead, Ivy said, "They won't be in danger. We only need them to act as a distraction."

"Are you sure?"

No, she wasn't remotely sure. In fact, Ivy intended to put the hyenas on the front lines, and if things went wrong, Black Mask would probably blast them. But, once again, the price of progress was lying to Harley's tear-streaked face.

"Yes, Harley, your pets will be fine." And if they aren't, Ivy thought, please blame whoever actually kills them, not me.

"Okay, Red, if you promise. I'll call Bud and Lou." Harley stuck two fingers into her mouth and gave a whistle loud enough to make dogs in Metropolis look around in confusion. As soon as she was done whistling, she shouted "Babies!" at the top of her lungs.

Nothing happened at first, and Ivy began to feel like Harry Potter at the Triwizard Tournament, waiting for his summoned broom. Then, just when Ivy was beginning to think Harley's hyena call had failed, there came the scratching of frantic paws and claws at the front door.

"Yay!" Harley said. She ran to the front door, opened it, and admitted the hyenas. Yipping and laughing, Bud and Lou leaped onto Harley. She happily went to the floor, where the hyenas could lick her easier.

Eventually the hyenas had enough of Harley's flavor, and decided they wanted her to scratch their bellies instead. Bud flopped over onto his back, and Lou followed seconds afterward. Their stubby legs kicking with pleasure, the hyenas drooled and laughed as Harley rubbed them.

Ivy would usually have had enough of Harley and her pets' public displays of affection at that point, but considering that one or both hyenas could potentially die, Ivy decided to wait for Harley to get it out of her system. Finally, after much more tail-wagging and belly scratching, Harley got up. She put a hand on both hyena's head, and said, "Mister J, Professor Crane, and Eddie are in serious trouble, and we gotta rescue them. Red's got a plan, and we need your help. Ready?"

Bud and Lou stared at Harley with blank devotion. She nodded as though both mutts had given her a thumbs up.

"Okay, Red, what's the plan?" Harley asked.

Ivy motioned Harley to the couch and, from underneath the cushion, withdrew the shotgun she'd hidden there. "Your hyenas are going to be the distraction. You are going to take this. While Bud and Lou run around and do whatever it is they need to do, you're going to free Crane and Nigma. And your vile boyfriend, if you have to. If anyone tries to stop you, you know what to do."

Harley nodded. "I can do it, Red. For my friends and my Puddin'."

Shotgun in hand, hyenas tailing after her, Harley turned and headed for the door. Tamping down the pain in her leg, Ivy rose from the couch and limped after her. Even if Ivy couldn't participate directly, she'd be damned if she wasn't going to at least watch.

* * *

TBC

Author's Notes:

The Lumberjack World Championships are held annually in Wisconsin, and feature 21 wood-chopping-related events.

007 is Bond, James Bond.

A blobfish is an incredibly ugly fish. So ugly, in fact, it was voted the world's ugliest animal.

Snape, from _Harry Potter_, is described as having a hooked nose.

Michael is from _Halloween_, Jason from _Friday the 13th_, and Ghostface from _Scream_.

Rambo is a troubled Vietnam War veteran with violent tendencies and the ability to kick a lot of ass.

In _The Goblet of Fire_, Harry competes in a wizard tournament. In the first event, he has to steal an egg from a dragon, and summons his broom so he can fly around the dragon. The broom takes a while to get there.


End file.
